Checkmate
by Alias424
Summary: The continual game between House and Cuddy develops a whole new set of rules.
1. Chapter 1: Gambit

**I haven't written anything for awhile - and certainly nothing for House. Those warnings aside, this will definitely be Huddy (as it should be). Sadly, I don't own any of the characters, etc. - I'm just borrowing them to keep myself entertained. Here goes...**

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**Chapter 1: Gambit**

"So this guy's kidneys walk into a bar…."

"House," Cameron interrupted. "There's no way alcohol's causing all this."

"Did I _mention_ the liver?"

"No, but – "

"I said his _kidneys_ walked into a bar. And I _didn't_ say they drank anything." He twirled his cane in one hand. "Maybe they tossed around a couple of darts, enjoyed some yummy peanuts soaked in somebody _else's_ urine. Scored a couple of dirty hookers…."

"You think he might've picked up an STD somewhere?" Foreman asked.

House rolled his eyes, the ends of his cane spinning dangerously close to Chase's head as he reached over and grabbed a piece of paper off the table. "Did you even _read_ these results?" He waved the blood tests wildly, crumpling the paper into a ball before tossing it in Cameron's direction. It fell short, and she lunged to catch it, missing and plucking the paper from the floor. "What a girly catch."

Cameron glanced up from the blood tests. "It was a lousy throw."

"When we take the kids to see the Special Olympics," House began, exaggerating his limp as he returned to the whiteboard, "you better stay at home."

"Could be a tumor," Foreman suggested. "If it's pressing on the – "

"Come on, people! Low calcium. High phosphate. Convulsions. It's not rocket science."

"Vitamin D deficiency," Chase offered.

"Hypoparathyroidism. It's textbook."

House smirked at the whiteboard. His back was to the door, but he would have known the voice even if he hadn't heard the familiar clicking heels approaching just seconds before. He had made a point of memorizing her footsteps when he had started at Princeton-Plainsboro. At first it had made avoiding her much easier. Then tracking her every move.

It was so much easier to catch your prey when it wore expensive heels.

He looked up. Cuddy was dressed in shades of blue today, a marked difference from the bright reds and pinks she had been sporting for over a week. Her blouse was buttoned too high to show any cleavage – a disappointment, but he could work around it. "Finally giving in and letting me play boss? Sweet."

She took a step inside the doorway, but didn't come any further. "Don't get any ideas. I still sign your paychecks."

There was none of the usual harshness in her words. Yesterday, she had marched after him into the men's room, practically tearing him from the urinal and frightening away the rest of the room's occupants as she had screeched about yet another rule he had broken. Today, she had announced her presence with a simple diagnosis and had yet to raise her voice. House was intrigued.

"I'll just wait until tonight." He grinned, waggling his eyebrows. "Your place at eight, right? You wear that Catholic schoolgirl outfit and I'll bring the ruler."

"Not everyone shares your idea of a good time, House," Cuddy sighed, leaning back against the doorframe.

"We _know_ Chase does. And I'm sure Foreman can be easily persuaded." House turned toward his team, hiding his mouth from Cuddy with one hand and whispering loudly. "Seriously, those legs in a little plaid skirt and knee-highs – it's totally worth it."

His audience responded as usual: Cameron gawked; Foreman rolled his eyes; Chase shifted uncomfortably.

"House," Cuddy began, slowly, warningly. She had brushed off his comment gracefully, finding her shoes and focusing on them. "You were supp – "

"Little busy here," he interrupted, determined to get her to react. "The Scooby Gang's way off their A-game today."

Her eyes flicked to his for half a second, before quickly looking away. He waited just long enough to see her purse her lips before turning back to the board. He uncapped the marker with his teeth, enunciating the word as he scribbled. "Hy-po-para-thy-roid-ism."

"Fits perfectly," Foreman responded impatiently. "Except for the fact that we ruled it out half an hour ago. PTH levels were fine."

"Too many symptoms don't match," Cameron agreed. "This guy's like a train wreck."

"Tremor, muscle cramps," House stated, ticking them off on his fingers, "convulsions."

Foreman sighed. "All signs of a hundred other conditions that would also take into account the fever, bloody vomiting, and respiratory symptoms."

"Oh, so you want to treat him for a hundred other random conditions instead of one that might be right," House spat.

"No," Foreman countered, leaning back in his chair, "I just want to give him a treatment that will actually make him better."

"What a _novel_ approach to medicine." Rather than glaring at Foreman, House glanced at Cuddy. She was being far too quiet, should have chimed in at least half a dozen times by now to counter him, or, at the very least, tell him why she was there. Her gaze swept in his direction, piercing his shoulder before traveling back to the floor.

Those few seconds studying Cuddy cost him control of the conversation, and Cameron swept in. "Sarcoidosis. It would explain the shortness of breath and fever."

Cameron was probably peering at him expectantly – no doubt waiting eagerly to be shot down – but she was just out of his peripheral vision. Cuddy was fingering her pearls.

"Vitamin D deficiency." This was Chase's input. Again.

Exasperated, House turned his attention from the Dean. "It would have been a lot less annoying if you had just given your lab coat to a parrot and stayed home today."

Chase straightened defiantly. "If it fits, I don't see why – "

"Thirty seconds for rebuttal." House interrupted, jabbing his cane at Cuddy.

She only needed one word. "Pseudo." Her arms still crossed, she looked past him out the window.

"Never cross a female endocrinologist when it's that time of the month," he informed his team, squeezing _pseudo_ in front of _hypoparathyroidism_ on the whiteboard. "They know how to get the most out of those raging hormones. Or in this case…."

The swish of a door broke his concentration. Cuddy had left the conference room and was making her way across his office next door with obvious intent. Her target: his phone, and she pounced on it immediately, twisting her head and cradling the receiver on her shoulder.

"You really should pay more attention to the calendar. It's color-coded. Red." He nodded at Cuddy, turning to face his team and pointing at Cameron. "Yellow. Chase, you're blue."

Chase ignored his comment. "When have you ever admitted Cuddy's right?"

"When has she ever _been_ right?"

His pager went off, but he didn't bother to check it, glancing instead through the glass behind him. Cuddy hung up his phone, meeting and holding his stare for the first time, her eyes hard in an effort to mask something underneath. He knew it was there - now only needed to figure out what it was.

"IV calcium. MRI the head and neck. Check out the kidneys," he stated, pointing to Cameron, Foreman, and Chase in turn. "Treat this, then figure out what's killing him."

He limped through the door to his office without waiting for any response. Cuddy had seated herself behind his desk, effortlessly assuming as much authority as she did behind her own. She didn't get up as he approached, so he leaned on his cane, the desk between them, and gave his best Addams Family impression. "You rang."

"Phone works," was her quick reply. She leaned back in his chair, folding her arms over her chest. "Pager, too."

"Technology's so great, isn't it?"

"You were supposed to be in my office at eleven." Her voice was thin but steady, didn't quite match her usual frustrated force. Anyone else might not have noticed. "The Llewellyn-Kowalczyks stormed out after waiting for you for 45 minutes."

"The what?"

"The parents of the kid who will spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, because you went against my orders and biopsied his brain." Her answer was quick but not as biting as it should have been. She didn't stand or raise her voice.

"But he does have a life, right?" Keeping up his end of their usual power play was second nature and his tone was sharp and jeering. He wondered how close he's have to get to her before she'd actually look him in the eye, and sidled around his desk, taking objects off it and making a show of peering underneath them. "People who insist on hyphenating names like those shouldn't be allowed to breed."

Cuddy had rested her forehead on one hand, massaging a temple with her thumb. She looked pale without anyone but him to impress, and for a moment he thought he saw through her careful makeup to the dark circles under her eyes. There was more to this than a paralyzed kid with a idiot parents. There had to be.

"House. You can't just…." Her voice trailed off, his chair squeaking as she shifted, sighing tiredly. "What are you doing?"

He ignored her, continuing his slow shuffle towards her, examining the objects on his desk. "Want me to help you find it?" Fully behind the desk now, he made a point of brushing up against her as he bent to look in his drawers. She sprung up and backed away from him just a little too quickly.

He offered her his most innocent smile, but she exchanged it for a frown. "Find what?"

"Your sense of humor." He nudged her aside with his cane and peered behind the TV. "It couldn't have gotten very far. We both know it's a little slow…."

She rolled her eyes, and that was a start. All he wanted was for her to respond to him as she normally would – with horror, disgust, wit, exasperation. He could feed off almost any verbal emotion, twist it and toss it back to the speaker. He didn't do well with silence.

"I don't have time for this," Cuddy murmured, her soft tone disappointing him. "And you should've been down in the clinic twenty minutes ago."

"Well, I'll just run down now and make up for lost time."

Cuddy nodded once, sidestepping him and leaving his office, not even seeming to notice that she had finally silenced him – without a word. He followed her as far as the door, fishing for his bottle of Vicodin, popping it open and swallowing a pill as he watched her make her way down the hall. She had never failed to remind him that he couldn't run anywhere.

Except once.

What was it now – four months ago? Five? Either Cuddy hadn't yet realized the similar track they seemed to be taking or she was loath to admit it – he had all his chips on the latter. They had neither anticipated nor spoken of it that first time, and certainly wouldn't again. To all outward appearances and even between the two of them, nothing had changed.

He smiled.

There was a very good chance that this was going to be fun.

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**Please let me know what you think. I have a couple more chapters in the works, if you want them, and your reviews will help feed my muse.**


	2. Chapter 2: Initiative

**You guys are amazing - thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews! And thanks for the rec, maddoggirl! Unfortunately, I don't have an LJ account, so will have to do. :)**

**This chapter is a little longer than I would have hoped, but the dialogue kind of ran away with itself. Anyway, I'm sorry for the length here. Hopefully the next one will be shorter - I can tell you for certain that there are definitely more House/Cuddy moments to come, if that's any consolation.**

**Have a nice weekend, all, and please let me know what you think of this!**

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**Chapter 2: Initiative**

House sat on an exam room table, cane beside him and Game Boy Advance in both hands. Even though he was only half focusing on the game, he was nearly to the end of the final level. His thumbs moved of their own accord in time with the electronic music. He had called for a consult nearly half an hour ago. It didn't usually take this long.

As if on cue, the door to the exam room swung open. House glanced up long enough to see Wilson's head and frowned.

"Hey." Wilson stepped inside and closed the door behind him, stopping suddenly and looking around the room. "Where's your patient?"

"Where's Cuddy?"

"She went home an hour ago." Wilson folded his arms. "Where's your patient?"

"Why didn't anyone tell me? I would've stopped pretending to work." He pounded furiously on the buttons of the Game Boy. He was only a few seconds to the end when…. "Dammit!" The music died with a final teasing flourish.

"You're not pretending to work now," Wilson pointed out.

"Well, I wouldn't have felt so guilty about it." House slid the Game Boy into his pocket.

"Yeah, right," Wilson snorted. "There never was a patient, was there?"

"Sure there was. Nasty case of the sniffles. It was touch and go for awhile – wasn't sure if everyday Kleenexes were gonna cut it." He picked up his cane, moving it in his fingers so the crook spun wildly. "Cuddy never goes home early."

"You're just upset you didn't fool her with your fake consult routine again."

The top of his cane was a hypnotic blur. "Now, the question is – why."

"You're an ass," Wilson answered, not missing a beat.

House stopped and glanced at him, raising an eyebrow in amusement. He gingerly swung himself off the exam table, making sure to place his cane squarely on Wilson's foot as he passed and lean hard against it. Wilson sucked in a breath, but refused to otherwise acknowledge the incident. "Did you say something?" House asked, managing to look as if nothing had happened.

Wilson glowered and followed him out of the room. "Where are we going?"

"I don't know where _you're_ going. _I'm_ going to Cuddy's office."

"You think I'm lying?"

House stopped suddenly, bringing traffic in the hallway to a halt. A small boy ran headlong into his cane and peered guiltily up at him. House screwed his face into a grimace, sticking out his tongue and widening his eyes. The boy stared, frightened, backing into the door that led to Cuddy's office with a resounding thump before tearing down the hallway.

"About Cuddy leaving – no," House finally answered, watching the boy disappear before turning to Wilson. "About not having slept with someone last night – yes."

Wilson immediately straightened, puffing out his chest indignantly. "I never – "

"Your lips say no. The lipstick smudge on your collar screams yes – as I'm sure you did plenty of last night." House smirked. Wilson craned his neck and tugged at his collar in an effort to find and destroy the incriminating evidence. "Your dying patients must've been glad to know their doctor's having a good time – though given your track record, one of them was probably right there with you. Does that ever make consults awkward?"

"It's _not_ a patient."

"I know those puppy dog eyes of yours, Jimmy," House scoffed. "Your shirt's wrinkled and your tail's between your legs." He turned and lurched forward, stopping outside Cuddy's door and hooking his cane on the handle. "You should keep a change of clothes in your office."

"It's locked," Wilson stated, not bothering to try the handle.

"Is _that_ what people are doing to doors nowadays? No wonder I've been stuck outside my building all week." He rolled his eyes, pulling his wallet out of his pocket andmaking a show of opening it and flipping through the contents, finally extracting a key and holding it an inch from Wilson's nose.

"Cuddy doesn't know you have that, does she." It wasn't a question.

"And if she finds out," House began, turning the key in the lock and opening the door effortlessly. "I'll tell her you're the one who stole it."

"She'd never believe you, and you know it."

"Yeah, but I bet Debbie in accounting wouldn't be so understanding." He stirred the contents of Cuddy's trash can with his cane: an empty coffee cup, a few tissues, a crumpled paper bag. "First it's the key to the Dean's office. Then you start stealing bases. Have you rounded second yet, because Cuddy's – "

"It wasn't Debbie in accounting," Wilson finally interrupted. It really was all too easy to get on his nerves. "I don't even know who that is."

"Wilson, you sly dog." House took his cane from the trash and wiped it on his pant let, shooting his friend a knowing grin. "Not even exchanging names anymore…."

He sat in Cuddy's chair, spinning it a full 360 degrees before beginning to open her desk drawers. The desktop was immaculate as always, the insides of the drawers no different: every paper clip and pen had its rightful place. At first this discovery had been a disappointment; he would have liked to think that the Dean of Medicine had a secret slovenly side. Now her obsessive neatness was oddly thrilling.

"It's Alice," Wilson muttered, defeated for a moment, but quickly trying to regain some ground. "Just what do you think you're going to find, House? Cuddy's diary? A stash of secret letters admitting her undying love for you?"

"So what's Alice's malignant tumor's organ of choice? The liver? Pancreas? I'm assuming the breasts are out for now. You don't look _that_ desperate." He glanced up. "Yet."

"What, your newest patient not interesting enough for you?" Wilson could be such a spoilsport when it came to cancer jokes.

House ran a hand over the contents of the middle drawer, intentionally scattering everything before closing it with a bang. "The kids can handle it. Amazing how fast they grow up, isn't it?"

Wilson didn't answer for a moment, had turned and was heading towards the door. "Stop trying to turn Cuddy into your latest puzzle, House. You know you'll only end up pissing her off."

The door snapped shut before House could respond. He leaned back in Cuddy's chair, bouncing his cane on the floor. Yesterday she had followed him into the men's room, chest heaving as she shouted (not that he hadn't enjoyed it); this morning she had sought him out in subdued silence; and now, for the first time he could remember, she had given up early and left the hospital behind. Maybe he had finally gotten to her after all. From here, it was only a matter of time….

He opened the middle desk drawer and began carefully re-straightening its contents.

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_Her heels clicked loudly on the slick bathroom tile. He heard scurrying behind him: someone darting out of a stall and hurriedly washing his hands, other footsteps shuffling straight to the door. The noise from the hall drifted in once more as the door opened and shut one last time – then they were alone._

"_You left the clinic." The words were simple and soft, but twisted with danger._

"_Had to go to the bathroom," he answered, not moving from the urinal except to tilt his head toward the ceiling. He was toeing a thin line, had been kicking at it for days and finally had her right where he wanted her – dangling by a taut and twisted thread._

"_Almost two hours ago."_

"_Hey, I don't question nature's call. I just answer it." He risked a glance behind him. Just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye – arms folded over the breast of her flaming red suit. "I have a patient."_

"_Like hell you do." Her voice was beginning to rise. "I was just in your office. Cameron's answering your mail, and Chase and Foreman are struggling through a crossword puzzle."_

"_That's not very professional of them," he mused. "They should at least _pretend_ to know all the answers while the boss is in the room." _

"_And no one but past patients and the clinic staff has called to complain about you for over a week. No new complaints – no new patients." She paused. He knew what was coming and considered heading her off, but admitting to anything before directly accused had never been his style. "Except the one you ever-so-sweetly told would probably drop dead of colon cancer, and then left waiting on his stomach, prepped for a rectal."_

"_I _knew_ I was forgetting something," he jeered, sobering quickly. "That patient was an idiot."_

"_That patient," she started, voice wavering just slightly, "was one of the hospital's largest benefactors. Needless to say, he's decided to allocate his funds elsewhere. And he's suing." _

"_That was quick."_

"_He's a lawyer. A good one."_

"_Damn. If only I'd snagged one of the bad ones this time…." He finally snapped his head back to look at her, nodding toward the door. "You mind? It's a little hard to _go_ under pressure."_

_He could just get a good look at her over his shoulder, surprising even himself when he skipped over everything else and locked on her eyes. Today, their blue was fierce, sizzling with more anger and pent-up emotion than he would've thought to give her credit for. _

_This final mutual gaze wasn't just another staring contest, and it silenced them both._

_She was surprised to see something momentarily spark in his eyes when they met hers – not fear, exactly, but something close; amazement and a grudging respect. He turned back to the wall._

"_Right. Like you have any sense of decency," she finally responded. She refused to give in wholly, but still ceded to his request by turning and staring down into the sink. "Two _hours_, House!"_

"_What's with the yelling?"_

"_Even for _you_, that's – "_

"_You're still yelling."_

_She paused, hadn't realized she'd raised her voice but just as quickly didn't care. His tone was teasingly nonchalant, and even though she hated that he knew just how to crawl under her skin, she sucked in a breath and released it. "I'm angry, House!"_

_And just like that the tables had turned. Only this time, he wasn't the one storming into her office, shouting about pulled authorization and dying patients while she played it cool. She glanced up, jumping when she saw his face in the mirror just over her shoulder._

_He was already looking into her eyes, and hers bolted to his automatically. _

_She took a breath, could feel the power that she forced out of her voice channel itself down her arms and into her fingertips, as they gripped the porcelain sink tightly. "If you could stop acting like a jackass for two seconds and actually get along with another human being – "_

"_Cuddy." He stretched out the second syllable of her name, forcing her into silence. He was toying with her; she could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes, but she still let him speak. "If you could stop acting like a tight-ass for two seconds and actually get laid…."_

_He trailed off. There was a retort to that, and they both knew it. But she wouldn't give in to him, wouldn't be the first to admit to what had happened months ago. She had convinced herself that it had been a moment of weakness, would never happen again. But if they continued on this path and the tension built once again…._

_In the mirror, she saw her own eyes flash; his were smiling.

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Cuddy carefully avoided the mirror, couldn't look into it without seeing him behind her. She had collapsed on the couch as soon as she had returned home, only rising when the doctor in her had finally overpowered her exhaustion and convinced her to change out of her wet clothes.

It had started raining just as she'd left the hospital, an icy, soaking rain that still chilled her. She had considered taking a shower, but didn't trust her legs to hold her up for its duration. Instead she cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed her face. The water was at once instantly refreshing and achingly cold. Scrubbing a soft towel over her face and flinging it onto the sink, she padded softly across the cold tile, intent on reaching her bed and curling up there for the night. Her arm brushed something soft and solid just outside the door.

In that instant before recognition, she started, her heart leaping into her throat, and she tripped over her own feet as she lurched backwards, knocking her head solidly against the doorframe. Sparks flew before her eyes and she cried out in pain, angrily shaking off the strong fingers that encircled her wrist to steady her. Swatting at him with one hand, she rubbed the heel of the other against her throbbing temple, wincing. He didn't try to defend himself.

Her voice trembled through clenched teeth, and she hoped he heard rage and not the tail-end of fear. "My _God_, House!"


	3. Chapter 3: Forced Move

**Chapter 3: Forced Move**

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing? How did you get in here?"

Cuddy had thought she'd had a headache before, but that had been nothing compared to this; and there was no hope for her at all, what with its double causes striking at exactly the same moment: the doorframe cracking her skull, the man before her a headache in himself.

House at least had the grace to look guilty. His grin was almost that of a sheepish boy whose hand had been caught in the cookie jar. Almost. More like a boy who knew that a pretense of guilt was more likely to earn him cookies and make her forget the sharp rap on the wrist. Cuddy had half a second to study him, only needed that long to notice how his forehead puckered, just perceptibly – and suddenly his face was too close to her own for her eyes to stay focused. She tried to back away.

The instant she moved, his hand was on the back of her head, tangling in her hair as it held her firmly in place. The swiftness of the motion startled her, and she tensed with a sharp intake of breath. She tried not to notice the friction of his fingers – sliding along her jaw to hold her chin squarely, tilting her face up to his – but it had been so long since he had touched her, since anyone had touched her, and his rough fingers on her smooth skin felt so right.

Awkwardly, still holding her chin, he hooked his cane on the doorknob and moved them both backward, his other hand searching the wall of the bathroom blindly. She reached around to hit the light switch for him, but he sternly headed her off. "Don't move."

She blinked as the light snapped on, then watched as his eyes flicked from one of hers to the other, studying each carefully.

So that's all this was then – a medical exam. She sighed, straddling the line between grateful and disappointed without much grace at all. And the blow to her head must have done more to her than she'd thought, because she only just remembered that any frustration now was completely justified, and he really shouldn't be here at all.

Slipping quickly and momentarily back on the side of grateful, she grasped at the first emotion she found there, anything to return them to something like normality and loosen the tension that was strangely tighter in this silence than in any of their thousands of shouting matches. Anger it was then, and she made sure to frost her voice. "I'm fine, House."

"Any change in vision? Ringing in the ears?" He examined her head where she had hit it, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"Yessss…" she hissed in pain as his thumb prodded a particularly tender area. And for half a second he looked worried, the emotion so foreign on his features that she would have stopped right there if irritation hadn't already pushed the rest of the thought forward. "I can see and hear someone who shouldn't be in my house at all. How did you get in here?"

"You asked that already," he chided, eyes gleaming. He was enjoying this, speaking to her as if she were a five-year-old. "Perseverating is – "

"Not an issue when you don't answer the damn question the first time," she snapped, finally jerking away from him.

"God, you're cranky. If you don't want people walking into your house, you should find a better spot to hide you key." He was still watching her eyes, and she turned her head to make it more difficult. "At least let intruders get a little creative. You take the fun out of everything."

House yanked her in front of him, and she turned and tried her best to scowl at him, but he pushed her forward, retrieving his cane from the doorknob. "C'mon – to the couch."

"What makes you think – "

"New head injury," he interrupted, pointing at her and then himself as he added, "old bum leg. If the human brain relocates to the thigh within the next few hours, you can be in charge. Until then, I'll be making all the important medical decisions."

"There's nothing medical about this, House. I'm fine."

"You'll be singing a different tune when rumors start circulating about how you got that bruise. Headboards can be _so_ tricky…."

She didn't bother glaring at him; she had that expression of his memorized: eyebrows arched, lips twisted into a smile, and a faked innocence that was stellar, but still couldn't hide the devilish twinkle in his eye. She stalked into the living room, sinking gratefully onto the couch. Exhaustion had consumed her hours ago, and this splitting headache wasn't helping.

House had lingered in the living room archway, scrutinizing her. "When was the last time you ate anything?"

"House, honestly…."

"Either you're trembling in anticipation of our night together…." He grinned, shivering as if caught by a sudden chill. "Or your body's been deprived of its daily calorie intake. Your choice – I'm easy."

"There isn't going to be a 'night together,'" she ground out, narrowing her eyes. "And I had breakfast."

He shuffled towards her, stopping a few feet away. "Dry toast at six in the morning won't get you through the day, Cuddy. These puppies," he paused, pointing his cane at each of her breasts, so close the tip almost touched them, "need a snack every few hours to keep up their strength."

She stared at him, the comment not surprising her, simply not deserving any other response. It bought her time to compose her features. He always had her _thisclose_ to laughter and he knew it. Sometimes it took all she had not to grin back at him. Usually, she failed; this time, she nailed it.

"I'm not hungry."

But he was already on his way into the kitchen, returning so quickly with a bag of frozen peas and a dish towel that he must have known right where everything was. She raised an eyebrow as he held both out to her, and he rolled his eyes, wrapping the peas in the towel and pressing them against her head. Her hand rested on his when she took the makeshift icepack from him, making it that much colder when he moved away.

"Have you ever considered that your inability to hold onto a man might have something to do with the fact that you starve all of them? There are at least seven vegetables in your fridge that I can't identify."

"Women aren't exactly lining up outside your door either."

He smirked, bouncing his cane on the floor and catching it. "There's no line if there's no maximum occupancy."

Resting her elbow on the arm of the sofa, she leaned her aching head on the frozen peas. His cane continued to thud. "What are you doing here, House?"

"I called for a consult."

He was still standing directly in front of her, towering, and she wasn't used to this view of him without the solid authority of a desk between them. "I sent Wilson."

"If I'd needed an oncologist, I could've called Wilson myself."

"You didn't _need_ anyone." She sacrificed her comfortable position on the couch to reach out and snatch his cane as he let go of it again. He tried to grab it back, but she was too quick and slid it behind her. He looked almost impressed. "I checked in the clinic right before I left. You showed up half an hour after I spoke to you, – "

"Long wait for the elevator."

" – saw two patients in your first twenty minutes, and the nurses hadn't seen you since."

He paused, scratching the stubble along his jaw. "In some cultures that might be considered stalking."

"Says the man I caught breaking and entering."

"It's not against the law if you have a key," he pointed out, looking much too pleased with himself.

"_Had_." She held out her hand.

"Finder's keepers." And with that, he turned and headed into the kitchen, walking slowly without his cane.

"House…." She tried to force authority into her voice, cringing when it came out sounding more like a whine.

"Relax. I put it back where I found it."

"Right," she muttered. But he didn't hear her, and it didn't really matter anyway. She had every confidence that he could find at least six different ways into her house without the help of her spare key.

House returned with two bowls, slowly. She rose to help him, but retreated back into her seat at his warning look. Handing one bowl to her, he sat down with the other on the opposite end of the couch. They ate in relative silence: she sipped the soup in small spoonfuls; he slurped it down quickly. It was at once so strange and so natural, the two of them sprawled out on the couch, sharing dinner. There were at least a hundred moments every day when she wished she knew what House was thinking – and even without a patient's life hanging in the balance, this one topped them all.

"This is disgusting."

His voice startling her, she looked up from her bowl. "No one's making you eat it."

"Who taught _you_ manners?" he asked, feigning astonishment, but probably not the disdain. "When someone offers you dinner, it's not nice to refuse."

"No one _offered_ you anything."

"When you're eating someone else's dinner, same rules apply. Ask Wilson. And I didn't say it was inedible, just gross." His gaze jumped from her to her bowl as she put it down. "It's just plain stupid not to eat your _own_ dinner. Especially when someone else slaved over it."

She raised an eyebrow. "Can opener still a little over your head?"

"And after I made you dinner…" he scolded, twirling his cane tauntingly and put it well out of her reach. She hadn't felt him pull it out from behind her.

"I'm tired, House." She tried to sit up straight, only managing to sink further back into the couch. "What are you doing here? Don't make me ask you again."

"Patient."

"Your PHP patient? Where's the file?"

"New patient. No file." House was balancing his soup spoon on his palm and she watched him warily. "Symptoms include pallor, tiredness, low-grade fever, lack of appetite – "

She caught on quickly, rolling her eyes. "I don't have a fever, and I'm not your patient."

" – and annoying stubbornness. Patient also suffered blunt force trauma to the head when attacked by a doorframe."

"Will you give it a rest?" she asked, scowling.

"Hey, I'm on your side." Doing his best to look serious and concerned, he leaned closer towards her. "Doorframes can be vicious – always waiting to strike when you least expect it."

She stood, was finally staring down at him. But without the added inches and conviction of heels and a well-tailored suit, or an entire hospital staff ready to jump at the snap of her fingers, her hard eyes and crossed arms meant next to nothing.

"Just under 100." He rose, was much too close to her, his voice teasingly flirtatious. "Your eyes are glassy."

"I don't have a fever," she repeated dumbly, starting to turn from him and wincing when the quick movement hurt her head. He eyed her. "Or a concussion. And you're leaving."

"Cuddy." House grabbed her elbow before she could move any further. And how could his tone move so quickly from teasing to this new softness? He popped open his bottle of Vicodin, dry-swallowing one himself and handing a pill to her. "You'll thank me later. Candy of the gods."

She took the pill from him without argument but didn't put it in her mouth. She was barely clinging to her faculties as it was, and there was no way she was taking anything stronger than Tylenol when he was still standing so close to her. "Goodnight, House."

It took until she was almost to the bedroom before she heard him behind her. They had skirted around the issue long enough, and although he seemed to be reveling in it, it was draining her. She stopped in the doorway, using the frame to support herself. His breath was hot on the back of her neck, the whisper of it trilling her through the spectrum of emotions, his hand pressing at her elbow just as she had settled somewhere between exhaustion and frustration sending her fluttering again. He'd had her emotionally on edge for months; it was a wonder she could function at all.

She steeled herself, because one of them had to and House was still touching her without saying a word. Unsought silence in House was unnerving. He always kept every conversation spinning in endless circles – sometimes she barely clung to the tail-end of what he was saying; others she swung back at him, making him respond to a reverse in orbit; and still others she focused him, but only rarely did this completely stop him in his tracks.

"What exactly do you think is going to happen if you follow me?"

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**Well... parts of that didn't work as well as I would have liked, so I apologize, but if I didn't get this out today, who knows when I'd be able to. **

**Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews, and to everyone for reading this far. ****What do you think – want to see more, or should I quit while I'm still somewhat ahead? I can wrap this up in the next chapter or so, but still have some ideas if you'd like me to stretch it out for awhile yet...**


	4. Chapter 4: Breakthrough

**So, when this story first came to me, there was a short version and a long version. The short version finishes somewhere around the end of this chapter, so I suppose that anyone who was hoping for that can just stop reading here. As for the rest of you - the story continues... though whether that's necessarily a good thing remains to be seen.**

**I apologize for the length again - I know I promised shorter chapters, but I'm hoping you'll forgive me once you get toward the end of this one. A warning, though - things do get a bit heated, so feel free to skip ahead.**

**Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! Please keep it up - my muse works better when well-fed.**

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Chapter 4: Breakthrough **

Cuddy's sudden directness threw him. Forcing himself into motion in order to buy a few precious seconds for response, he edged up beside her, leaning at arm's length on the other side of the doorway.

Their balance was off tonight, the wit of one sharpening at the moment the other softened. He would have to find just the right comment to convince her of what they both needed – a dare folded into a promise, mixed with enough force to rile her, enough submission to allow her the control she both required and relished, with sufficient truth to leave a subtle undertone, but a dash of innuendo to mask it when the flavor became too strong.

He always did his best to impress her, but now her perfume and proximity aided his cleverness while slowly chipping away at it, so what he finally offered up wasn't what he had wanted to say at all. "For starters, better access to your bathroom. I can try shooting from here, but I'm not making any promises."

"Nice." The word sounded on the end of a sigh. She turned to look at him, raising her eyebrows.

Tilting his head, he craned his neck around the doorframe. "Distance probably wouldn't be an issue, but accuracy…."

Tossing her head back at him, she crossed her arms as she moved through the door. "Whatever mess you make, you're cleaning up." She jerked a thumb at the bathroom. "Mop's in the closet."

Smirking, House sidled past her and entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He quietly rummaged through the drawers and cabinets, flushing the toilet and running the tap before selecting a bottle of pills.

Cuddy was standing beside the bed when he returned to her, arms folded and one bare foot on top of the other, both sticking out from the bottom of a pair of well-worn flannel pants. He recognized the colors immediately – blue and gold, with a faded figure on her thigh that must have once been a wolverine.

"Here." He held out the bottle of Tylenol, popping the cap with his thumb.

Without a word, she flicked her eyes up to meet his, gazing at him through her lashes. Her hair was pulled into a sloppy ponytail, curlier and more unruly than usual, dry now, but she must not have shielded herself from the rain. Somehow she looked paler here than she had in the light of the living room.

He nodded at her left fist, still tucked under her other elbow. "I know you won't take that."

She stretched out her arm and opened her fist, the Vicodin pill moist, leaving a white residue, and he had to suppress the sudden, inexplicable urge to lick the bitter powder from her palm.

"Keep it." He tipped the bottle, two Tylenol falling next to the pill already in her hand. "In case you want to get the party started later." He grinned at her and turned to leave.

"House." Her voice was strangely quiet, stopping him in the doorway, and it was then he knew that there was no way he would leave her alone tonight. "Thank you."

He nodded, shuffling out of the room and to the front door, opening and shutting it. He had been surprised when she hadn't followed him, and was even more so when she didn't come looking for him immediately, checking to make sure he had actually gone. Locking the door, he silently made his way into the living room and hunkered down on the couch.

* * *

House suddenly snapped to consciousness, the darkness strange for a moment until he realized that his eyes were still closed. There had been no sound or movement to wake him. He blinked.

"You're still here." Her voice was soft, pitched low, and when the suddenness of it didn't startle him, he knew he had been expecting it, had felt her presence all along.

Turning slightly toward the sound of her voice, he found her shadow perched on an armchair across from him. He rubbed a hand over his face, hoping she would mistake the sleepiness in his voice for his usual gruffness. "And you're still not sleeping through the night."

"You'd find it hard to sleep, too, with someone prowling around your house."

"Bad dreams, Cuddy?" Slipping into taunts and sarcasm was as automatic upon waking as stumbling into the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker. "I'd let you snuggle up with me, but I don't think this couch is up to handling both of us _and_ your giant ass."

"Well, if the weight of your ego hasn't already broken it…." she murmured, and her facial expressions must bend the tone of her voice in ways he'd never recognized before, because he could hear her scowl.

Her chin rested on her knees, a blanket pulled tight over her shoulders. When he shifted onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, he saw she had spread a quilt over him as well. He smiled, his voice softening. "What time is it?"

"I don't know." It was still dark. Nowhere near dawn. The moon and the distant glow of streetlights cast eerie shadows around the room, but somehow it all seemed right.

"Did you sleep at all?"

She shrugged. "An hour. Maybe two."

He eyed her for a moment, his vision fully adjusted to the darkness now. "C'mere."

"Why?" Her tone was more than a little wary, probably not simply from lack of sleep.

"Important doctor stuff. I'm still making the medical decisions, remember?"

"Why don't you come over here?"

"I just woke up," he whined, pulling himself into a sitting position and rubbing his thigh as it protested loudly, the dull ache igniting into full-fledged pain.

His knuckles grazed something warm and solid as he threw off the quilt – her thigh, he soon discovered, turning and finding her suddenly beside him. He tugged her wrist, gently, and she bent obediently, letting him feel the bump on her head with one hand, her pulse jumping under the fingers of the other.

"Your leg hurts," she murmured, and it was at once an explanation and an accusation.

"Your heart rate is 136," he countered, only because something had to be said. "Sit."

Quickly, she snatched her wrist away. "House…."

"Humor me."

Sighing, she settled precariously on the edge of the couch, was so obviously trying not to touch him that the unexpected click of their hipbones was electric, but she hid her surprise well under fatigue and exasperation. "What, House?"

"Resting pulse." He explained, gripping her wrist again, gently but firmly. "Insomnia makes you feisty."

"You shouldn't be here." She said it simply, her tone lacking the accusatory sting she might have thrown into it just minutes before.

"You're not gonna tell my mom, are you? I'd be _so_ grounded…."

"Like that'd stop you."

Her body relaxed against his, her arm no longer tense in his hand. And so there was something to be said for this endless banter of theirs, but he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it had become a security blanket large and strong enough to shield them both.

"Hey, just doing my job. I _always_ check up on my patients."

"Right. Your bedside manner is inspiring."

He brushed his fingers lightly over her pulse point to remind her that he was there, and it was now or never when she didn't pull away. "I don't seem to remember you complaining about my bedside manner four months ago."

The pause that followed was two breaths too long. He watched the slow tilt of her head, following the slope of her nose to where his fingers grasped her wrist. Her lips curled into what he hoped was a smile, teeth glinting in the soft light that shone in the windows.

"I don't seem to remember there being a bed."

"Fine." He returned her grin, and she was closer to him now, but he hadn't pulled her and couldn't remember her moving. "Exam table. But you're killing the metaphor."

"No need. You've done that already."

"I'd _never_ kill a metaphor," he scoffed. His fingertips traveled up her bare arm, and though his touch made her shiver, she didn't shake him off. "I nurture them all the way from little analogies…."

"Tuesday…" Only two syllables and the new breathiness in her voice already had him on edge. "…Jelly doughnuts and vasculitis."

"Now that one I might've carried a little too far." His hand was at her shoulder now, and it was only a short journey from there to the skin that jumped with every beat of her heart. "But today: your breasts and the produce depar–"

"You've used that already."

"If the shoe fits…."

"Mixing metaphors isn't going to help you any, House."

"Cup size, then."

"A weak save, but I'll allow it."

The words came easily now, quick and meaningless, and he only half heard what came out of his own mouth, let alone hers. He murmured something about her heart rate rising, tugging at her at the same time she leaned towards him, and everything else was heat and his hammering heartbeat and her smooth, strong fingers running over his abs underneath his t-shirt.

Three things were exactly the same as before.

(1) The banter continued, neither allowed more than a few seconds pause before responding to the other, not-so-subtle jabs that almost-but-not-quite dealt with the matter at hand, sidestepping it deftly. (2) Hands, fingers, lips traveled everywhere below the neck. Any contact between both mouths would endanger the endless chatter; in silence, all this might come to have meaning. (3) The verbal battle of wits masked an even more epic battle of wills. Although final release was all that could cap the tension that had been rising steadily for months on end, neither wanted to be the first to succumb to it.

These were the rules; unspoken, but followed nevertheless – nearly to the letter.

He had won before, only by the slightest of margins – and even then only because he had half-cheated, nipping at the nape of her neck, the spot just behind the back of her ear, nearly around to the curve of her jaw. He remembered she had arched against him, and he had been the one to cry out mid-sentence – something about her lack of skills as an administrator and time that could be better spent.

The quilt was long-gone by now, one of them having flung it over the back of the sofa, along with any other articles of clothing that might have hampered wandering hands. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the feel of her against him, surrounding him, and for an instant she looked more fragile than he had ever seen her.

The moment was fleeting, but it had been enough, and he interrupted whatever it was she had been saying. "Cuddy."

There must have been something in the way her name left his mouth – so soft and careful, his hands caressing her in much the same way. Without the austere sterility of the hospital, all the things that had hardly changed were suddenly so different, and it would be so easy to….

"Don't." Her tone was quick and stern. She flashed him a glare as her fingers threaded through his own, the action so opposite her tone and stare that he wasn't sure she was conscious of it. "House. I told you – I'm fine."

"People who are fine generally don't take on the appearance or sleeping patterns of the Count's last midnight snack…."

"Your diagnosis is vampirism?" She chuckled throatily, using the sound to barely conceal a moan. "Who do you think you are – Van Helsing?"

"… or walk straight into doors." God, that laugh alone could kill him. "And no – I'm much cooler. Plus there's no way I'm driving a stake through one of these babies."

She could choose to ignore his last comment, but not the feel of his thumb flicking across her breast, and the delirious way she arched against him was answer enough. "If you hadn't been here, House…."

"Sure, blame it all on me."

"When it's all your fault, it's warranted."

"C'mon, Cuddy…. I've been your fall guy for years." And, oh, if she kept moving like that….

"Give me a break. You've never been blamed for anything that hasn't been your fault."

The flaws in their rules were almost blinding now, and it was so hard to focus on the meaning of words when they held more breath than voice and gasps took the place of punctuation. "Right. Like one guy could've – "

"Don't try to play innocent with me."

"Funny – I didn't think I was."

A second passed, two, and she hadn't jabbed back at him. Her grip on his hand was almost painful. When she finally spoke, the usual hint of exasperation in her voice was just shy of perfect, but it wasn't her tone that caught him.

"Greg…."

And without warning, the tension coiled past the breaking point and released, his senses colliding: the scent of darkness was intoxicating, even more delicious when flaring pinwheels and rockets burst in sudden Technicolor on the tip of his tongue – soap and the lingering effects of her perfume played a soft melody behind the combined clamoring fragrance of their two bodies – his own groan shifting behind closed eyelids, finally caressed by her sudden, swift intake of breath….

He came back to himself as she wilted on top of him, one arm outstretched, her hand resting beside his head on the couch. She still held his hand in hers and he refused to relinquish his grip, forcing her to rest both their fists against her forehead in an effort to hold up her head.

Without a thought, he moved their joined hands so that her head slipped and descended. Her face moved only a few inches closer before she caught herself, but it was enough, and he lifted his neck to close the gap between them, pressing his lips against hers.

When had he ever played by the rules?


	5. Chapter 5: Positional Play

**Thanks so much to everyone who's reading this - especially Huddytheultimate, hyper.much911, anon., sinister scribe, addicted2coffee, xVirlomi, coco1116, Dream Descends, Abbeyannmd, i.have.an.idea, RogueButterfly, and vanessadeanne. You guys are fantastic! **

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Chapter 5: Positional Play **

_Oxygen was already in startlingly short supply, her senses stumbling, and the sudden (literally breathtaking) jolt of his mouth pressed against hers sent her into a spiral from which there was no hope of recovering. His lips were surprisingly soft and careful, would flit away like a hummingbird if she made even the slightest motion to deny him, the pressure barely existent – a phantom-touch, spine-tingling but nowhere near enough. She strained for more, pushing hard against him (converging anywhere, everywhere at once) gasping. His lips curved delightfully into a smile as he took advantage of her open mouth, the fiery tang (bitter-Vicodin-laced, stale-coffee-and-sweet-peppermint that expressed at once his now-soft manner and usually-callous personality) exactly what (she hadn't until that moment realized) she'd been expecting. And his fingers were threading through her curls, his thumb kneading the taut muscles on the back of her neck, his other hand gripping her own so firmly that they had completely bypassed pain and corkscrewed wholly into screaming, sparking pleasure…._

She was lulled slowly from a dream-filled sleep by something caressing her cheek so softly that it couldn't have been anything but a summer breeze, whisperingly warm and inviting. Gentle as the touch was, she inwardly cursed it for drawing her further towards consciousness, groaning as she nuzzled further into her pillow. Her pillow chuckled softly, the sound stirring it to motion beneath her, and the unexpected noise and action woke her with a start.

As accustomed as she was to waking alone, the fingers cupping her cheek and the arm snaking around her waist should have been frightening. But the voice that accompanied them was immediately familiar, yet in a way she could never remember having heard it before.

"Whoa there, Lise…."

Her vision finally adjusting to wakefulness and sunlight, she found an intense pair of eyes staring right back at her, so close that her own rumpled appearance was reflected in their depths. Minus the waggling eyebrows and lascivious grin, it was nonetheless Gregory House, wearing nothing but boxers, a few blankets, and a slow, tender smile.

It hadn't been a dream at all.

His thumb ran in tickling, hypnotic circles on her bare skin. "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Hey..." It was all she could muster, and even that one word was dreamily rumbling with sleep. She couldn't help the smile she knew was spreading much too widely across her face, tried to hide it in the blankets, but his hand was quickly under her chin, tipping it upward. Speech was necessary. "What time is it?"

"A little after seven-thirty," he answered, looking almost apologetic for having awakened her, suddenly becoming so purposely serious that she knew a glimmer of his usual sarcasm was returning. "I knew you'd have a conniption if I let you sleep any later, and I can't take your shrieking before I've had my morning coffee."

But it was impossible to take offense or vie for dominance when his hand had crept underneath her t-shirt – his t-shirt, she realized, though she couldn't remember having put it on. The pads of his fingers were drawing lazy designs on her back, the sensation soporific; she was still so tired. "How long were you watching me sleep?"

"I'd say about as long as you were watching _me_ sleep last night," he answered pointedly, his smile curling into a smirk.

"You were in _my _house." Even as she continued, she knew any defense was hopeless. "On _my_ couch."

"And you're on _me_ on your couch."

She had felt his caresses, been aware of the startling proximity of his eyes to hers, but somehow she hadn't noticed how close they actually were. She was wedged between him and the back of the couch, but he was taking the brunt of her weight, her upper body sprawled across his bare chest, her left leg over his. Instinctively, she pushed against his chest, raising herself off him.

"Hey – not so fast," he chided, tugging her back down to him. "I don't want all the blood rushing back into this side of my body all at once. Pins and needles…." He shuddered, the friction against her delicious.

"House…." His name was automatic – he must have known that – yet she thought she saw him frown, disappointment flaring for only a moment. Then his fingers were on her cheeks again, trailing across her forehead, and was it possible to be driven straight past oblivion with just that slight touch?

"Fever's gone down. How's the head?"

"Better." Every second that passed would make her that much later for work. If only time would stand still for just a few moments….

He crooked her head, brushing her tousled curls away from her face and whistling faintly. "The stories that're gonna come from that…."

"You wouldn't dare." Finally surrendering to reason, she eased herself off him, taking one of the quilts with her, and careful to lift herself over his right thigh. She stood, swaying slightly and bringing a hand to her temple. Her head still ached, she must have hit it yesterday harder than she'd thought.

House sprung to his feet to steady her with more agility than he should have possessed after a night spent on her couch and before his morning Vicodin. If his tight-lipped expression was meant to disguise his worry, it was a miserable failure, but she preferred it that way.

"Stood up too fast." She offered him a smile. "I'm fine. Really."

He looked her up and down, closely and carefully, no doubt searching for any reason to convince her to stay home today, but finally giving in with a single nod. His hand on her elbow was soft and gentle, his thumb rubbing in circles. He wrinkled his nose at her, grimacing, but still not pulling away. "Go shower. You need it."

He pushed her gently, but not before pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth, so quickly and softly that she hadn't registered the gesture until he was already shuffling towards the kitchen. He paused, feeling her gaze, turning back and smiling. "Go. Don't make me follow you in there."

It wasn't much of a threat at all….

* * *

Purple, yellow, orange, more purple…. "House." …green. Where the _hell_ were all the red ones? "House." If all those snot-nosed, feverish hellions had taken the last of them again…. "House!" 

"Ah _ha_!" Finally spotting what he had been searching for, House extracted the coveted last red lollipop from the bowl on the clinic's front desk and turned to Foreman, exasperated. "It's much harder to ignore you when you're shouting."

The younger doctor's arms were folded, and he fell in step beside House as he left they clinic. "Yeah? Well if you keep ignoring Eli…."

"Who?" House pulled his face into what he was sure was the picture of confusion, strolling leisurely out of the clinic.

Foreman rolled his eyes, falling into step beside him. "Shortness of breath? Vomiting? PHP?"

"Balding? Huge sideburns? Could stand to lose a few pounds?" House countered, the plastic wrapper crinkling as he tore it from the lollipop with his teeth, sticking the candy in his mouth. "I stopped in this morning. He was asleep."

"He's been awake and asking to see you for four hours. We've been paging you all day."

"Turned it off," he replied nonchalantly, pulling his pager out of his pocket, tossing it into the air and catching it. They were passing Cuddy's office now. She was bent busily over her paperwork, her head resting on one hand. "The constant beeping was getting _really_ annoying."

"He won't even let us in the room anymore unless you – "

"House."

Her voice echoed down the hallway. And there it was – the staccato clip of her heels increasing in volume as she drew nearer; an echo of that morning, when she had first crossed her kitchen after dressing, his back to her as he rifled through her refrigerator.

House stuck his cane out to stop Foreman, nearly tripping him, ignoring the younger doctor's mumbled expletive. "What did you and the rest of the Mouseketeers do this time?"

Foreman's folded arms and no-nonsense look said everything he didn't: _you've got to be kidding_.

"Oh, like Mommy's never yelled at you," House sneered.

"_I'm_ not her problem child."

Cuddy was upon them now and jabbed House in the chest with one long finger. He took the lollipop from his mouth, staring down at her finger with a raised eyebrow. She removed it quickly. "You haven't been in to see your patient once."

"Who tattled?" House whined, staring angrily Foreman. "Was it Cameron again?" He turned back to Cuddy. She had shed her pink blazer, and her flowered top cut fantastically low, leaving just enough to the imagination. He let his run wild, staring at her brazenly. "If you want me to take an interest in my patients, you shouldn't give me the boring ones."

She must have noticed his line of sight, but paid it no heed. "You haven't had a patient for over two weeks. Boring or not, you needed something to do."

"PHP is genetic – the guy's lived with it forever."

"And _you_ diagnosed it."

"Do I get a gold star?" He asked, batting his eyelashes and simpering sweetly.

Cuddy chuckled wryly, shaking her head. "If I thought a sticker chart would improve your work ethic, I would've hung one in my office years ago."

"A monkey in a lab coat could've diagnosed this guy." He paused for a beat, eying her, weighing his next move. "_You_ did."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but under her frosty exterior, he could detect the slightest hint of amusement. She was enjoying this just as much as he was. Was it even possible that the charged atmosphere – so abruptly filled with electrical energy that he could hear the humming, feel its static pulling at him – wasn't noticeable to anyone but the two of them?

A throat cleared. "We're treating the PHP," Foreman interrupted, watching them both warily, "fever's still present, urine output is decreasing, and he's still vomiting small amounts of blood."

"There's nothing exciting about bloody vomiting," House grumbled.

"Funny." The blue of Cuddy's eyes seared him. "Your patient probably shares your opinion." She turned to Foreman, and, glowering or not, the loss of her eye contact was painful. "Go tell Mr. Grant that Dr. House will be in to see him momentarily."

Foreman nodded, departing obediently. As soon as he was up the stairs and out of sight, Cuddy turned suddenly to House and held out her palm.

The gesture had him at a momentary loss, but he was quick to rebound, feeling around in his pockets before taking the lollipop out of his mouth and holding it out to her. "Only one I've got. Slightly used, but you're welcome to it."

She placed her hand on her hip. "Someone was rifling through my desk yesterday – "

"You really can't trust housekeeping."

" – and arranged all the paperclips into an impressively accurate outline of the female anatomy."

He widened his eyes in exaggerated surprise, making sure to enunciate his words, shouting just a little too loudly. "How _awkward_!" Heads were turning in their direction, but for most of the hospital staff, this was nothing more than another spat between the Dean of Medicine and famously hot-headed diagnostician. "So you want me to have a chat with Wilson, then?"

"I want the key to my office back, House." She was holding onto her authoritative demeanor phenomenally. Still, she allowed him the smallest of smiles – in slight amusement, mostly, but speaking volumes when coupled with the quick lowering of her eyes, the slight dip of her chin.

"What makes you think I need a key to get into your office?" He let the question hang heavily between them until she peered up at him through her lashes, and in an instant he heeded her unspoken request, quickly changing gears, tone teasing, conversational. "Nice job with the concealer. It almost looks like you got whammed with the candlestick instead of the wrench."

"Because that would hurt less?" she asked dryly, but she was looking at him again, and that was really all that mattered.

"Because the candlestick was the lamest of the Clue weapons," he stated, matter-of-factly. "Guns, knives, pieces of lead pipe, and _giant_ wrenches are just lying around the mansion, and the candlestick's the best Miss Scarlet can come up with?"

"House, if you think you can avoid…."

Her skin was still just a little too pale, her eyes only betraying a slice of the exhaustion he knew was still weighing upon her. Once his caresses had finally lulled her off to sleep last night, she hadn't awakened until morning. But her sleep had been fitful, and he had woken more than once just in time to soothe her back to slumber before consciousness had fully snagged her.

It came without warning, but he was at once filled with the intense urge to touch her, soothe her – rub up against her arm, brush back her hair, kiss her until they were both out of breath. Anything. Her breathing quickened, her chest rising and falling just perceptibly faster, and he knew she felt it, too. He turned and lumbered down the hall.

"You better be on your way to see your patient, House. I'm not kidding."

"Right after my meeting with Colonel Mustard in the conservatory," he tossed back to her, smiling to himself. "Tactics."

He still had both her keys, and he meant to hold onto them for quite awhile.

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**Slowly but surely we're getting to the plot - I hope you all don't mind the ride.**

**Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought!**


	6. Chapter 6: Transposition

**Thanks again to everyone who's reading this. Especially AngelEyes2332, csi7, Jojo, JD11, Kday89, hyper.much911, Huddytheultimate, coco1116, lil smiles, RogueButterfly, thevigilante15, addicted2coffee, Elliesmeow, tanzfieber, gabiroba, and willywonka3435. You guys write some _amazing_ reviews - I'm still in awe! Thank you!**

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**Chapter 6: Transposition**

"Did you know your answering machine isn't working?"

"Probably because I unplugged it."

"I tried to call you five times last night."

"We've got to get you a new phone-a-friend. I've got this 900 number – five bucks a minute, but worth every penny."

"I needed to…."

House had just settled comfortably against Wilson's desk and helped himself to half of a homemade turkey sandwich when Cuddy materialized in the doorway, arms folded, eyes glinting fiercely. He had left her not five minutes ago, but she had obviously stopped at her office before coming to hound him – she now wore her suit jacket, the fabric pulling against her curves in all the right places.

Neither the return of the jacket nor her sudden appearance surprised him in the least.

"Miss Scarlet," he accused her teasingly, mouth full of turkey, "you took the secret passage."

"Yes. Straight from the Oncology Lounge," Cuddy answered dryly. "I don't have time for this, House."

"Yet you're still stalking me."

"Only because you won't get any work done unless someone's following you around."

"When are you going to admit that you like the view from behind me?"

He waggled his eyebrows, watching Cuddy's glance jump from him to Wilson, as if to gauge how much the other man knew. Relief flickered across her features when Wilson quickly wiped the smirk off his face, the corners of her frown rising, forehead smoothing. When she spoke again it was with much less force than he would have expected. "Patient. Now."

"Lunch." House took a bite out of his sandwich to emphasize his point.

With a look of determination that he could only attest to seeing on the Discovery Channel in the moments before a snake springs out at its unsuspecting prey, Cuddy crossed the room in three quick strides, snatching the half-eaten sandwich from his hand.

He recoiled as if she had in fact bitten him, barely had time to respond before she stepped swiftly back to the door. "Hey!" Behind him, Wilson chuckled, and House turned at the sound of this betrayal to glare his friend into silence.

"You'll get your lunch after you see your patient."

Taking his weight off the desk and leaning on his cane, he took a few hobbled steps in Cuddy's direction, but she stood her ground. Her eyes were gleaming in triumph, churning into an even more irresistible blue. Distracted, he voiced the first thought that came to him. "You just stole Wilson's sandwich."

"If _Wilson_ wants it, he can come get it." She eyed the gnawed edges of the hard roll and torn slices of turkey with a hint of disgust that he found amusing. "Though I doubt he'll find it very appetizing after you've slobbered all over it."

House turned to Wilson, nodding pointedly in Cuddy's direction, but Wilson merely shook his head, holding his hands up as if to surrender. "She's right. I don't want it."

"Your culinary skills got us into this mess." House jabbed his cane at Wilson and flicked it at the door. "And I'm not going to be the only one led out of here by _your_ sandwich, so move."

No doubt determining that any argument would not be worth the effort, Wilson rolled his eyes and obeyed, walking past Cuddy and through the door without further comment. House took his time crossing the room, faking a stumble in order to brush up against the breast of Cuddy's suit. A grin flickered across her face, fading as her eyes lowered.

Without a word, she led them down the hall.

The boy came out of nowhere, appearing as abruptly as a flash of light but with substance and solidity, zipping in front of Cuddy. She faltered, lurching forward. Instinctively, House reached out to steady her, his outstretched arm nearly clothes-lining Wilson in the process. His hand lingered on her upper arm longer than was necessary, the starched fabric of her jacket rough against his fingers. She didn't seem to notice, one of her hands on the little boy's shoulders, the other still holding the half-eaten sandwich carefully aloft.

"You okay?" she asked the boy softly.

The kid nodded his curly, carrot-topped head, offering a small apologetic smile. House recognized him immediately – the same Spiderman shirt as the day before, the fear in those large, dark eyes.

Reluctantly, House took his hand from Cuddy's arm, and only through the lack of pressure did she seem to detect that his fingers had been upon her at all, her chin dipping toward him as she watched his hand pull away. House bent down to the boy's eye level. "Tell your mommy you need glasses."

The boy blanched, eyes widening when he saw House's familiar face so close to his own, and he tore himself from Cuddy's grasp, running between them and down the hall, sneakers pattering loudly.

"What was that about?" Cuddy asked, frowning as she turned to follow the boy's fleeing form. She brought a hand to her head as if to brush back her hair, instead quickly and gently massaging the hidden bruise at her temple.

"Dr. Gregory House," Wilson answered dryly, "champion of small children everywhere."

"Little Peter Parker needs to work on his spidey-sense and learn to watch where's he's going."

His comment was, of course, in response to Wilson's jab, but he didn't take his eyes from Cuddy. She felt his gaze, eyes sweeping to his, and quickly dropped her arm to her side, nodding once, tightly, to answer the question he hadn't asked, her reply oft-repeated, but still not wholly believed: _House – I'm fine…._

They continued down the hall without further incident. Cuddy gingerly handed the sandwich to Wilson as they approached the elevator, wiping her hand on her coat. "I have a board meeting. Make sure he sees his patient."

House caught her eye for only a moment before she turned away, but couldn't read her expression. As soon as she was out of sight, he filched the sandwich from Wilson, ready to bite eagerly into it, but pausing open-mouthed. "I don't need a babysitter. Look – " He lifted a leg a few inches off the ground. "Big boy pants now and everything."

"Cuddy seems to think otherwise," Wilson answered as the elevator chimed and the doors opened before them. A small crowd parted to make room, and they stepped inside. "She's upped my pay by ten dollars an hour."

"And I thought that was for all those sexual favors. You know, I heard that – "

"Stop." Wilson waved a hand. "Whatever you're going to add to that, I don't want to hear it." There was a rustle of unspoken disappointment behind them. Wilson didn't speak again until they had gotten off the elevator and started down the hall, his tone too-obviously conversational. "What's going on with Cuddy, anyway?"

"You seriously think there's anything on this planet that could answer that question?"

"I assumed – lothario that you like to think you are – that you would claim to know all about the inner workings of the female psyche."

"You're also assuming," House pointed out, popping the last of the coveted sandwich into his mouth and licking his fingers, "that Cuddy's a woman."

"Fine," Wilson retorted. "I'll rephrase the question. What's going on with _you_ and Cuddy? And don't lie to me – you practically mowed me down when she tripped."

They were outside the patient's room. Reaching into his pocket, House popped the top on his Vicodin bottle, quickly swallowing a pill. Despite Foreman's insistence that the patient was alert and agitated, Eli Grant was asleep once again, breathing deeply and evenly. House walked into the room, lowering his voice – if he could follow Cuddy's orders without having to deal with a conscious patient, all the better. "I wouldn't've had to if you weren't too afraid of getting cooties to even touch a girl."

"I know you two have this game you play," Wilson mumbled, following him closely. "The adult version of anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better, but – "

"It's more adult than you think." Looking up from the monitors, House grinned wickedly. "I can cut you in, for a price. Cuddy won't mind."

It took Wilson a moment to answer, and his tone was much more serious than the previous comment warranted. "Be careful, House."

"What – you scared I'm gonna hurt Cuddy's feelings and she'll lash out at you?"

"No. I think you've got yourself hardwired for self-destruct. She – "

House met his friend's gaze, the thought leaping into words before he had a chance to stop it, his voice low and suddenly stern. "She isn't Stacy."

"I was going to say: she's your boss." Wilson took a step back, eyeing him suspiciously. "Are you sure there isn't – "

"So," House interrupted too loudly, but still the patient didn't wake, "Alice still a tiger in the sack or has the cancer started eating away at any of the fun-loving organs yet?"

Wilson sighed. Mission accomplished: conversation closed.

* * *

The key didn't turn the way Cuddy had thought it would, the handle clanking awkwardly as she jimmied the key in the lock before it finally gave way. She swung the door open. 

What had seemed a faint murmur only moments ago transformed into a wave of scales and chords that flooded the hallway. She thought she recognized the last moments of Bach before the music trilled in an entirely different direction, twisting wildly for a moment before settling on the Rolling Stones.

She knew the tune immediately, smiling in spite of herself as she closed the door softly behind her. Of course House would choose this moment of all moments to remind both of them that you can't always get what you want.

"It's about time," he called over the sound of the piano, not bothering to turn. "I was about to send out the hounds."

"You're a bastard," she answered, approaching him, trying to summon up even an edge of the anger she had originally felt back on her own front porch, but barely finding frustration. "I need my keys back – all of them."

"I left you a spare."

"_Your_ spare won't get me into _my _house." She let the incriminating metal evidence fall from her outstretched hand onto the keys of the piano. It jumped as he continued to play before clattering to the floor. Neither of them bent to retrieve it.

"You were in that board meeting for a _really_ long time," he finally offered, on the verge of laughter.

"My purse was locked in my closet, House." She had meant it as a reprimand, but weariness transformed it into something more akin to a whine.

"You keep insisting that I need keys to get into everything…."

"You keep saying you don't, but stealing them anyway."

"_I_ might not need them…." He paused, throwing himself into the music for a moment, the notes vibrating in the air. "But _you_ still do."

Her eyes were transfixed on his splayed fingers as they darted skillfully over the black and white piano keys, the fluttering movement and repeating parallel patterns strangely hypnotic. "This isn't a game, House."

"Sure it is. You think you one-up me, I get you back a hundred times better…." As he spoke, she let her gaze jump from his fingers, could only see a fraction of his face from this angle: the corner of his eye twinkling, his mouth tugging into a grin. "You've got nothing on me, Cuddy. You'll own up to it one day."

"I've got plenty on you."

He twisted his head, the locking of their eyes a sudden shock of frigid water – blue on blue, both freezing instantly. The tune had morphed into something different – a practiced paradox: lazy and vivacious, clipped and lingering, poignant and unfeeling. It was like nothing she had ever heard before, yet eerily familiar, and his fingers seemed to have memorized it perfectly.

"In Twister, maybe. But I could _so _sink your Battleship." He was playing one-handed now, reaching to take a drink from a sweating tumbler that sat on the piano, the ice clinking. He nodded at a second glass that she hadn't noticed was there. "Seltzer. Don't want you to be able to accuse me of trying to get you under the influence."

She didn't reach out to take it, sighing tiredly. "I didn't come for a drink, House. I need my keys."

Maneuvering awkwardly, fingers of one hand still lazily playing the piano, he pulled a key out of his back pocket and tossed it to her with a quick flick of a wrist. The motion surprised her, but she somehow managed to catch it, her keys jangling in an odd rhythm with the notes of the piano as she safely placed it back on the ring with the others.

"Thank you."

Only when his playing faltered did she realize how her voice must have softened. She had stayed at the hospital far later than usual, and exhaustion had long since passed the point where sleep would come easily that night. Having succeeded in wrangling at least one key from him, her mind and body must have decided that it was time to give in, and for the first time since entering his apartment, she felt the persistent, dull ache of her head.

Sighing, she backed slowly away from him.

He must have sensed the sudden increase in distance between them – when had the space of so few inches become so noticeable? – because he stopped playing completely, swiveling and deftly catching her wrist. "Stay."

"House…." She meant to give him a full sentence, to tell him that it was getting late and articulate all the reasons why it would be best for both of them if she left. All she got out was his name.

"Cuddy." The syllables played out on his tongue, curving on the corners of his sudden, soft smile. "You're already here. You're exhausted. It's late."

He was standing now, pulling her closer, and piling one excuse on top of another as haphazardly as a toddler stacking multi-colored, lettered blocks – a sunny A sleeping on its side; grass-green P, backwards; fire-engine W (or M, maybe, standing on its head); leafy L; and a bluebird J placed too close to one side and sending the whole tiny tower toppling….

And there was nothing playful in his tone this time as he gently repeated his command, something in his voice weaving it halfway into a request – as close, she knew, as he'd ever get to asking for anything. "Stay."

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**Thanks again, everyone, and please let me know what you thought! K****eep up those great reviews and the next chapter'll be finished in no time!**


	7. Chapter 7: Deflect

**You guys are fabulous! Seriously. The response to this has been overwhelming, and I can't thank all of you enough –** **especially: MirPez, JD11, anglchild, Cath Cuddy, willywonka3435, Nikelodean, coco1116, Elliesmeow, Friendsholic, addicted2coffee, RogueButterfly, Kahlua13, gidget89, Huddytheultimate, huddytilidie, nirky, sudoku.addict, Kday89, thevigilante15, i.have.an.idea, and hyper.much911. I have a feeling that I'm quickly going to run out of adequate adjective, but you guys are awesome. **

**I hope you still like those long chapters...**

**

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Chapter 7: Deflect **

Cuddy's weariness had already pushed her past the breaking point, was evident in her heavy-lidded eyes, her slightly-slowed movements, the way her every reaction seemed a split-second off. His actions were slowly chipping away at the crumbling remains of her usually stalwart exterior. Inside the sterile hospital walls, she would have shoved him away before his fingers had even linked around her wrist, or laughed wryly, backing well out of his reach. Here and now, she didn't do anything at all, and that lack of motion was more jarring than any of a thousand more violent reactions might have been.

His fingers massaged their way up her arm in smooth, rambling circles, digging deep to soothe the overwrought muscles beneath the rough fabric of her suit jacket. He met no resistance – not a word, a breath, or even one of her patented glares – finally, painstakingly-slowly making his way to the juncture between cloth and skin, quickly jumping the divide and deftly slipping the tip of his thumb under her shirt, kneading the tension at the crook of her neck.

"Stop that…." She said it on the tail-end of a sigh, even as she dipped her head to allow him better access.

"Seriously?" he asked, chuckling, both hands rubbing her shoulders now, and she arched her back into his touch.

Cuddy didn't answer; didn't step away; didn't notice that his free hand had crept around to pluck the keys right from her hand.

"Listen." House leaned forward to whisper the words into her ear. He had no intention of letting her go anywhere, but she most certainly wasn't driving. "I can take you home on my bike. I can drive your car and end up staying at your place anyway. Or we can just stay where we are."

He had felt her tense at the mention of his motorcycle, the idea of it seeming to draw her back to alertness, and she stood straighter in his arms. When she spoke, her voice was just a shade shy of normal. "You're not even giving me a choice."

"There's always the motorcycle," he pointed out, teasingly.

"Not a chance in hell, House."

"What?" he asked, feigning disappointment and innocence, hands stilling. "You don't trust me?"

"On a motorcycle?" she scoffed, twisting her head and catching his eye. "God, no."

While he was almost certain that lack of faith extended to within ten feet of an MRI machine without supervision (as she had informed him only last week when the machine had "mysteriously" broken for the umpteenth time), there were still hundreds of thousands of other places. House grinned, the thought of her trusting him lingering hopefully in the air like the promise of sunshine after a break in the rain.

Strategically hiding her keys from view, he turned her so she stood in his arms peering up at him, her eyebrows two arched question marks but the question itself never voiced. She stumbled as he pushed gently against her, and he supported her weight as she regained her balance, before backing her slowly and carefully until her legs hit the piano bench. Tugging her down onto it, he bent over her to take a swallow of his drink before setting it back down.

He retrieved his cane from where it leaned against the piano and walked away, leaving Cuddy on the bench behind him. "Stay there."

"Where are you going?"

He turned in time to see the lingering effects of her frown, lips pursed, brow knit. She was in the midst of lifting his half-empty glass, the seltzer ignored.

"To see what I've got in my kitchen that isn't growing anything green and fuzzy," he responded, grinning as she took a sip of his scotch, her face curling into a grimace as the first swallow of alcohol burned her throat. "Don't have too much of that. You skipped lunch again – "

"I was in and out of meetings – "

" – and it's way past dinner."

" – most of the day, and chasing you around for the rest of it."

Of course she meant that as a reprimand, but his mind warped it easily into a not-so-naïve version of a first-grade boy and girl's playground game of tag – minus the cooties and exponentially multiplying the sexual tension. The girl could chase the boy all she wanted, but when it came down to it, the only threat she had was a sloppy kiss she would never give – the boy, in turn, could yank at her glossy pigtails, lift her pleated, checkered skirt and show the entire first grade that she still wore frilly baby underwear….

"The twins'll be sloshed," House continued, ignoring her excuses.

Cuddy folded her arms across her breasts, as if _that_ could hide them from him or erase the inverted-color image that had long ago imprinted itself on his memory. Beaming wickedly, he turned back to the kitchen, making sure to jingle her keys loudly.

"House..." she groaned, and without turning, he knew she was staring at her empty hand in disbelief, searching futilely through her purse.

He parroted her tone perfectly. "Lisa…."

Without a moment's pause, she snapped back at him, vexation twinging her voice just slightly, the mimicry otherwise without fault. "Greg."

He let her keys fall on the kitchen counter with a metallic rattle that she must have heard, but she didn't come running to retrieve them. Opening a cabinet and examining its contents, he shouted back at her. "Macaroni."

"What?" Her reply was half laughter, her confusion evident.

He couldn't help the smile that washed over his face; not a smirk or a leer, but a genuine smile – an expression that his facial muscles had grown much more accustomed to within the past day. Pulling a box from the cupboard he slowly made his way back to her, holding out the box as a peace offering.

"You too high-class for some good old-fashioned macaroni? It's not that fancy whole wheat crap I found in your kitchen, but if it was good enough for Yankee Doodle…."

"I don't think he actually ate the feather," Cuddy responded matter-of-factly. "And you don't need to make me dinner."

"See, the girls and I had a little conversation this morning while you were sleeping. They agreed to put some extra effort into your cleavage if I promised to keep you fed." He paused to give her a chance to react, not surprised when she rolled her eyes to hide a grin. "There's no way I'm going back on a deal like that."

"You're impossible."

"You're one to talk."

With that, he lumbered back into the kitchen, not giving her any more time to argue. Finding a clean pot, filling it with water, and placing it on the stove, he immediately tore open the box of pasta and poured it in, turning on the burner.

"Aren't you supposed to wait for the water to boil?"

Her voice right in his ear startled him, but he didn't jump, his fingers intrinsically finding and curling around her bicep as he turned. "Do you _always_ follow the rules?"

"Usually they exist for a reason."

"Yeah – to be broken," he jeered, stealing closer to her and smiling coyly. "I like to live dangerously. I don't preheat the oven either."

She returned his grin tiredly. "I'll call Evel Knievel and let him know he's got competition."

Her hair had begun to escape from the clip that had held it all so perfectly at the hospital, the strands framing her face. Her skirt and matching suit jacket were too stiffly formal so close to his jeans, and her high, pointed heels almost made own stockinged feet ache. Letting his hand slip to the small of her back, he led her into his bedroom. She followed without protest, watching him carefully as he rifled through his drawers, extracting a t-shirt and a worn pair of flannel pants and holding both out to her.

He quickly pulled the clothes back as she put out a hand to take them. "Any chance you'd be willing to forego these for your birthday suit?"

Simultaneously shooting him a glare and biting her lip to cover her amusement – the oddly erotic combination causing his heartbeat to pound in his ears – Cuddy reached out and snatched his makeshift set of pajamas.

"Can't blame a guy for trying," he pouted, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and nodding towards the bathroom. "While you're at it, leave a message with whoever it is who follows _your_ every move at work and tell them you're gonna be late tomorrow."

She eyed him strangely, her response expected and automatic. "What are you going to – "

"Let you sleep," he interrupted, trying to keep up his teasing tone but not quite succeeding, pretending he didn't notice the way her confusion shifted into surprise before radiantly softening to a still-stunned satisfaction. "And it's not open for negotiation. You're not the boss of me here, and I'll tie you down if I have to. In fact…."

Her eyes swept to his, head tilted as she held his gaze, and he returned her cerulean stare with equal intensity, neither blinking. Too soon and without any threats about exactly what might happen if rumors started to circulate at the hospital, she gave a curt nod, breaking eye contact and heading into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a muffled click.

House returned to the kitchen, finding a spoon and stirring the noodles, which had already started to stick together in the now-boiling water. As he finished dinner, he listened to the running of the water in the bathroom, her footsteps, and muffled voice on the phone – liked the thought and sounds of her moving so easily through his rooms.

She had neatly folded her clothes and placed them on the arm of his sofa, and was perched wearily beside them. He handed her a bowl, unhooking his cane from his arm and propping it against the couch.

"Chef's special. Mangia."

"Looks delicious."

"Don't give me that crap. I know you'd rather eat your rabbit food." He sat down next to her, tucking into his pasta with gusto even though it was his second meal in as many hours. "You know, that's probably why you're sick. You need to eat some real food every once in awhile."

She picked at dinner, chewing thoughtfully. "I'm not sick."

"Right. Those dark circles under your eyes are the picture of perfect health. It's a good thing only one of us is in charge of diagnostics."

"Well, the other one of us is in charge of the person in charge of diagnostics. As well as every other department…."

"I _knew_ you'd play the boss lady card." He jabbed his fork at her for emphasis. "Is that the only hand you ever have?"

"It trumps almost anything you've ever got," she responded, eyeing the tines of his fork and shifting away from them.

"So, what – the entire hospital's gonna come crashing down if the all-powerful boss lady so much as admits that she might be susceptible to the flu bug?"

"Crashing, no. But I'm pretty sure you'd do your best to throw a wrench into whatever gears you could, and I don't want to be stuck cleaning up after you."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "The janitorial staff and I've already staged a coup for tomorrow whether you're there or not." Finishing his pasta and setting the bowl down, he leaned over and peered into her dish and rolling his eyes. "Good _Lord_, you're slow."

"What are you, five?" She yanked her bowl away from his face, careful not to send noodles flying. "You don't have to wait for me to finish."

Sighing in mock disgust, he rose, heading towards the piano and downing the rest of his scotch in one gulp. He heard the hollow sound of her bowl hitting the coffee table as he sat down at the piano bench and glanced over at her as he started to play. "Finish your dinner."

He let his fingers dance over the keys, inventing the tune as they went – some of it snatches of tunes he had heard before, others finding ground in experience, emotion, sudden inspiration. The music unraveled slowly from the piano, notes and scales quivering through every open space in the room, so that neither of them could breathe without drawing in the melody.

He had only been at the piano a few minutes, but when he looked over at Cuddy again, her eyes were closed, her head resting against the couch. She didn't move when he stopped playing, and he rose and approached her, softly sing-songing her name. "Lisa…."

She mumbled something to the effect of staying where she was and swatted at his outstretched hand, but he brushed off both the half-words and gesture. "We're not sleeping on the couch again. C'mon. I can't carry you, but I'll drag if I have to. Caveman style." He tangled his fingers in the hair at her scalp, pretending to pull.

She conceded, rising and leaning wearily against him, her slender frame strangely fragile in his loose-fitting clothes. "Hey…." He spoke with quiet, uncharacteristic seriousness, squeezing her shoulder to make sure he had her attention. "You sure everything's okay?"

"Mmm," she murmured, nodding. "I'm just tired."

"You can't lie to me, Lise," he scolded lightly, stopping them both as they entered his bedroom and turning to face her.

She yawned, mumbling into his chest. "I've just had a lot on my mind lately."

His usual teasing tone returned involuntarily, but even it had softened. "Care to elaborate? Or are you going to make me play Twenty Ques– "

Her kiss surprised him, her mouth landing askew of his own, just catching his lower lip and sliding center-ward as her arms wrapped around his neck and tugged him down to her. Small and delicate as she was, she dominated him fiercely. The hesitant, feathery pressure of her lips gloriously ascending, needy and suddenly bruising, as his mouth opened to the wet heat of her tongue running lightly along the seam of his lips.

The clatter of his cane echoed as if through a far-off tunnel. He needed both hands to pull her impossibly closer – one, at the back of her neck, cradling her head; the other arm wrapping around her waist, his fingers sneaking underneath the soft cotton of her shirt, splaying against her smooth, even softer skin. His fingertips tickled their way up her torso, and he smiled against her lips as they discovered what he had longed to affirm since she had changed – she wasn't wearing a bra.

Her breath hitched, motions stuttering, her body wavering as she leaned into his arms, relinquishing all control as suddenly as she had seized it. Reluctantly, paying no heed to his raging hormones and heartbeat, the ear-splitting screech that all his senses simultaneously sounded in dissatisfaction, he pulled away, breathing in the air she expelled as he rested his forehead against hers.

She moaned in protest, but he silenced her with a single, chaste kiss, letting his words rumble against her lips. "Sleep. I'll take a rain check."

Tugging her gently towards the bed and pulling back the covers, he pecked the corner of her mouth, the bruise at her temple, her forehead. Silently, sleepily, they tumbled into bed, and House waited with closed eyes for the soft sound of her breathing to deepen and even out beside him.

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**Thanks again for reading, all, and please let me know what you thought - your reviews make me smile. **


	8. Chapter 8: Capture

**I'm so sorry this took so long - I had to make an unexpected trip to Illinois, which took up a few prime writing days. As you all've said you like long chapters, hopefully this will make it up to you. Thanks so much for the awesome reviews - I wish I could thank you all individually, but I have to be out the door in five minutes (and I'm sure you'd much rather get to the story anyway). Just know that you all really know how to make someone smile.

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****Chapter 8: Capture**

This hazy half-sleep was almost as good as a Vicodin high. His mind had not yet wakened enough to remind him of the pain in his leg, only relaying a languid heaviness and the sense that if he tried to move, his muscles would not be strong enough for the task. He was in his own bed, he knew, the softness of the sheets familiar, but somehow more comfortable than he had last remembered them. Behind closed eyelids in the red darkness of late morning, he watched the memory of her asleep beside him, as if in a dream.

The sudden smack of knuckles to his jawbone brought House careening to consciousness, the unexpected violent interruption of sleep hitting him like a bolt of lightning. "What the hell…?"

He tried to sit up and take in his surroundings, but something on his chest held him fast, and he could do little more than momentarily panic as he found himself unable to move, his eyes snapping open. The weight on his chest was warm and breathing: fist unclenched into separate fingers delicately curled against the coarse stubble at his jaw; her hair just under his nose, sweetly scented of vanilla and honeysuckle – he had thought nothing short of sizzling bacon could smell so good upon waking.

Cuddy's body was pressed against his, left leg bent and intertwined with his own. His first thought was that he would have to tease her – the self-proclaimed all-powerful Dean of Medicine clinging so tightly to her lowly nephrologist and diagnostician. Then he noticed where they were positioned – the almost-equal space on either side of the mattress, sheets and blankets in a tangled central mass – and he realized he had met her halfway.

One arm was already curved around her, fingers resting against her waist, and he moved his free arm slowly and gently, feeling her forehead for fever. Light as his motions were, they somehow woke her. She stirred, mumbling sleepily, her body arching against him as she stretched.

"You've got a mean left hook," he muttered after a moment, giving her time to waken fully.

Cuddy lifted her chin to peer up at him and frowned, clearly confused. Her eyes were an intense blue upon waking, glinting with what he hoped weren't the lingering effects of fever. Her frown crept upward, bending into a smile as she watched him study her, and he quickly took control before she could speak, rubbing his jaw.

"I knew you were a multi-tasker, but you should've warned me that you use your REM cycle to practice Krav Maga."

She chuckled lightly in return, running her thumb along his jaw line, his rough stubble rasping. "Big baby."

"You're lucky I don't report you. The members of the board would love a good abuse scandal."

"Against _you_? They'd vote to raise my salary."

He sneered at her teasingly, brushing the hair from her forehead at the same time, subtly trying once again to feel for fever – but with the two of them pressed so close together and cuddled under the blankets, it was difficult to tell whether he should let her heated skin should worry him. The bruise at her temple, at least, was fading, its edges yellowed, and she barely flinched when he pressed it gently. "Feeling better?"

Nodding, she smiled softly – he had been caught caring red-handed. She nuzzled into his shoulder, her breath hot through the thin cotton of his shirt, her voice muffled. "I think I could sleep forever. What time is it?"

"Two-thirty," he responded, without looking at the clock, unable to resist taunting her. To say that she was irresistible when riled – chest heaving, heartbeat racing, eyes narrowed viciously – was a vast understatement.

"What?!" Her head shot off his shoulder faster than he thought neurons and muscles should be able to collaborate. Eyes wide, she hilariously tangled herself further in the blankets, nearly knocking them both off the bed in her effort to get up.

He glanced at his watch and pulled her down, despite how her thrashing movements caused pain to shoot up his leg. "Relax. It's nine-thirty."

Understandably wary, she shot him a ferocious glare and tugged at his wrist, twisting it so she could read his watch herself. "Ass." She smacked him lightly, but her forehead descended to his shoulder once again, and she sighed with relief.

"You're the one abusing a cripple," he pointed out. "And at least I don't talk in my sleep."

"Neither do I."

Anticipating her reaction, he wrapped his arms tightly around her slender waist so she wouldn't be able to escape, pitching his voice high in a breathy, girlish imitation. "Oh, Greg…. You're _such_ a…."

"Shut up. I do _not_ talk in my sleep." She tried to raise herself off him but he held her fast.

He stared at her, completely serious. "You're asleep – "

"And even if I did, it would definitely _not_ – "

" – how would you know?"

She let him cut her off, rolling her eyes. "Two different roommates in college; three others in med school and after. _Someone_ would've said something." Her toes wriggled against him, tapping out a rhythm to a song neither of them heard. He had known her for so long and was only just beginning to pick up on her little habits. Sometimes the movement was barely perceptible – the tapping of a shoe, the twisting of a rubber-band – but there were very few moments when she sat perfectly still. "And there are a thousand other ways to end that sentence that are much more likely than whatever you had in mind."

"Ass is out. You've used it already and the article's wrong. Someone as anal retentive as you are would never stand for it." He grinned. "Med school was _ages _ago…."

"Child. Jackass. Bastard," she stated, ticking them off on her fingers. "And don't even start. You're older than – "

"_Low_ blow. Ever think there might be a reason you had so many different roommates?"

"Is this the same reason I can't keep a man, because I really don't want to hear it."

"Food has nothing to do with it," he answered automatically, only then picking up on the hint of pain that grated her voice even through the teasing. "Hey." He said it to get her attention and wouldn't continue until he had it, her eyes sliding to his somewhat reluctantly. "I'm not going anywhere."

He waited just long enough for her smile to blossom, budding beautifully, impossibly from pursed lips, the effect like watching a rose bloom in fast forward – radiance spiraling from little more than potential. "Mostly because you've done a pretty good job at pinning me down."

Cuddy groaned in disgust – the smile still not faded, he noted – and moved to roll off him. She raised an eyebrow when he refused to let her go, glancing from his face to his hands at her waist and back again, daring him to come up with some excuse for his behavior. He didn't fail her.

"I didn't say I wanted you to go anywhere either."

She pressed her lips to his, kissing him softly, but not lingering as he would have liked. When she rose this time, he let her go – mostly because the touch of her lips had disarmed him – following her up but resting on the edge of the bed. He moved to rub his leg out of habit, a futile effort to rid it of the persistent ache that plagued him every morning. But her hands were already there.

With the meticulous care that only a well-trained doctor could provide, Cuddy seemed to know just the amount of pressure he needed, weaving it with a tenderness he had never felt from anyone. Under her skilled fingertips the soreness diminished.

"It's the least I can do," she stated quietly: an apology, he knew – though an unnecessary one – for having slept on him two nights running.

Mind chugging slowly as her touch overwhelmed him, he tried to think rationally, to conjure up images of the medical journals he had seen around her office, because must have studied this somewhere – even so-called feminine intuition couldn't be this good.

Only when he saw her watching him curiously did he realize he must have been staring, and as usual, whether appropriate or not, the first thing to come to mind was all he could offer her. "I still have that rain check…."

For a moment, she looked torn, hands stilling, though he thought he felt them tremble; and if she had cashed in his ticket then and there, he would have sworn that two seemingly-impossible things had happened simultaneously: hell had frozen over, and he had died and gone to heaven (the latter, of course, impossible without the former).

But then her eyes flicked to his watch, her features suddenly stern. "Work." Still she didn't move, and her voice softened just perceptibly as her eyes met his. "Later."

He watched her, unblinking. "Can I get that in writing?"

"You'll have to take my word for it."

"You won't be sick forever," he warned, shaking his head as she opened her mouth argue. "Don't give me that _I'm not sick_ crap. If somebody had stopped playing Super Doctor for two minutes and gotten her flu shot…."

"If a certain member of my staff would actually do his job and – "

"I offered to talk to Wilson." He drummed his fingers on the back of one of her hands, both still resting warmly on his thigh. "And the minute you're – "

"Not at the hospital," she interrupted, no doubt softer than she had intended.

"You didn't let me finish." His hand stilled on top of hers. "The minute you're better – and not at the hospital – you'd better be ready to – "

"I will be."

"You didn't let me finish," he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't have to." Her smile curled mischievously, and in that instant he saw a reflection of himself in her face. They were both rocketing from one emotion to another, following whatever this was between them from one moment to the next. She continued to surprise him, and he was loving every second of it.

"Good with your hands, aggressive, _and_ clairvoyant – you vixen." He reached for his cane. "C'mon. I can be dressed in five minutes and then we've gotta get you home to change."

"Right." She snorted with laughter. "I can drive myself. You should've been at work half an hour ago."

"And think of how much smoother your hospital is probably running without me."

"Be that as it may," Cuddy began, rising, and he made sure to have his best puppy dog face at the ready when she looked back down on him, the rest of her words dying on her lips. "Stop procrastinating."

She put her foot down. Literally: arms folded, chin jutted out, and that no-nonsense stare he got so often. Yet the image of her barefoot in his pajamas was so endearing that it was hard to take her seriously.

He grinned up at her, knew she could tell he was up to something. "Greg…." Her tone was warning, and she backed away from him as he stood and took a lurching step forward. "Whatever you're planning…."

"You're an idiot." His smile grew as she scowled, and he tried to catch her arm, but she was too quick, and he had to settle for an arm's length between them. "If you had any sense at all, you'd realize how unbelievably sexy you look right now and find a way to use it against me."

She reddened, just slightly, dropping her gaze but recovering quickly. "You're incorrigible."

"And you're still standing here."

"Not for long." True to her word, she turned and walked away, calling back over her shoulder. "Stop enjoying the view and get ready for work. If you're not there by the time I get in…."

He couldn't remember the urge to run, the anger and frustration at not being able to, ever having been so strong. "Lise…." She turned, and he leaned against the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to pull off nonchalance. "Promise me you'll take it easy today."

In reality, her answer wasn't one at all: the flick of her chin perhaps standing in for a nod, but there were no accompanying motions or words of agreement. But the way she inadvertently mirrored his actions, rubbing her neck, and tried to hide a bashful grin with the twist of her head was all the response he needed. And when she stayed rooted to the ground and let him approach her for one last sizzling kiss before she left, he definitely wasn't complaining.

* * *

"ANA was negative. It's not lupus," Cameron stated as they rounded the corner, the three younger doctors perfectly in step beside their limping mentor. 

"You might as well test him for smallpox while you're at it," House sneered. "How long have you worked here and when has it ever been lupus?"

"If you didn't think it was lupus why'd you order the test?" Chase asked, frustration evident – the temper of their latest patient was wearing them all thin, and that his symptoms were broad and progressing slowly wasn't at all helping.

"Because I love the smell of antinuclear antibodies in the morning," House answered, breathing in deeply through his nose and releasing the breath in a loud sigh. As usual, his team pretended to ignore his theatrics. "And because testing for things before you rule them out usually keeps Cuddy from screeching at you – though I know how much you enjoy that sort of thing. It's never lupus. Next."

Foreman stepped up to the plate. "Tumor lysis syndrome."

"Whoa, Speed Racer." House slowed his steps to make his point, aiming at Foreman an annoyed and incredulous look with which the younger doctor was all too familiar. "You think a patient can _magically_ get tumor lysis syndrome without being treated for cancer, but there's _no way_ he can have a genetic condition _and_ an infection at the same time?"

"Who says it's an infection?"

"I do. And the 102-degree fever agrees with me."

"There are hundreds of infections that could account for his symptoms," Chase protested.

"But probably only one that's slowly killing him. Better start looking for that one before any _important_ organ systems start failing," House replied, pausing to fish his Vicodin bottle out of his pocket. "So I'm not the only one who thinks the patient's gotten a lot more boring after we diagnosed the PHP?"

Although House would never admit it aloud, Chase was right. Over half the symptoms on the whiteboard had been erased once they had discovered the pseudohypoparathyroidism: tremor, convulsions, muscle cramps, low calcium, high phosphate… all the interesting ones. The fever, vomiting, and respiratory symptoms that remained were more of a nuisance than anything. They had slowly worsened, to be sure, but they were all itching for the course of whatever disease this was to take a nose-dive, presenting them with something fresh and dramatic.

From slightly behind him, House heard Cameron heave a sigh. "Have you even gone to see him yet?"

"Of course." He feigned offense, but Cameron wasn't buying it.

"And you talked to him?"

"Would've been rude not to."

"Was he awake?" Foreman added pointedly.

House paused for a moment, and twisted his mouth as if deep in thought. "That's debatable."

"Why don't we start him on broad-spectrum antibiotics?" Chase asked before the ever-moral Cameron was able to rebuke him. "Whatever's he's got – "

"Broad-spectrum'll nip it in the ankles as hard as it can with its itty bitty baby teeth," House responded, childishly lisping the end of the sentence. "Might even immobilize the big, bad infection for all of ten seconds. But we don't want to _tickle_ the monster, we want to chop the ugly bastard's…."

A flash of red outside Cuddy's office forced House to a sudden stop. At the edge of the Dean's office window, about three feet off the ground, the pane of glass was smudged with fingerprints, a circle of fog appearing and fading every few seconds. Spider-Man greeted them with a blank stare, fiercely shooting a blast of webbing that might have been threatening if it wasn't confined to a two-dimensional expanse of red and blue cotton. The little boy rocked back and forth on the worn tiptoes of his sneakers, fingers and forehead pressed against the glass.

"House?"

He continued in a low voice, forcing his team to lean toward him, much to their obvious dismay. "Make him worse, ID the infection, fix him, and send him home."

"Why are you – ?"

"Shhh!" he chastised sharply, waving a hand.

"What's wrong?" Cameron tried again, whispering this time.

"You're still here," House answered, softly but sharply, eyes still glued on the boy. "The lab's that way. Go," he added when the three younger doctors still hadn't moved. Without a word, but surely a few shared looks, they obeyed.

He shuffled forward silently, careful to keep his reflection out of the boy's view in the window. Taking his eyes from the child for only a moment, he glimpsed Cuddy hunched busily over her desk, phone cradled on her right shoulder as she scribbled furiously with her other hand, oblivious to the tiny voyeur just outside her window. She wasn't exactly taking it easy, but he would have to call her out on it later. Right now, he had a spider to catch.

With practiced dexterity, House seized the boy's shoulder with one hand, swinging his cane out with the other and pressing its rubber tip to the window, successfully cutting off all possible routes of escape. Startled, the boy sucked in a breath, bumping his forehead against the glass, repeating the action when he started again at the sound of the voice behind him.

"Gotcha!"

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**Thanks again for reading! Please feed my muse and let me know what you thought!**


	9. Chapter 9: Interpose

**Hello again, all! As always, thanks again to all my readers and fabulous reviewers (from the last two chapters, as I've fallen behind): maddoggirl, crazychicken-79, AR, FriendsHolic, Huddytheultimate, willywonka3435, gabiroba, HigherThanSoulCanHope, Cath Cuddy, hyper.much911, Elliesmeow, Nikelodean, CaptainTish, coco1116, Abbeyannmd, gidget89, huddytilidie, thevigilante15, kirby russell, bijouterie, porkpie, csi7, Shikabane-Mai, and Dmitrivna. **

**For those who were wondering: the boy has tripped up both House and Cuddy during the course of the story - and that was supposed to be his only function, until he suddenly developed a side-story of his own. So it goes...**

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****Chapter 9: Interpose**

A sudden thump wrested Cuddy's attention from the voice droning sleepily in her ear. She had been quickly and diligently signing forms in order to plow through the mountain of paperwork that had found its way to her desk during the course of the morning, but stopped mid-signature.

The small boy she had tripped over the day before stood wide-eyed outside her office, pressed up against the glass. House loomed over him like a nightmare – no doubt not meaning to appear as threatening and sadistic as he did. That the scene didn't surprise her was almost exhausting than the thought of having to deal with it.

Quickly muddling through an apology to quiet the still-buzzing voice on the other end of the phone, she nimbly invented an administrative emergency and hung up the phone. Slipping her feet back into her shoes – a few shoeless moments a luxury she rarely remembered to allow herself, but always relished when she did – she rose tiredly from her desk and crossed the room, opening the door to House's all too familiar voice.

"… so much for superhuman speed and cool web action. Can you do _anything_ a spider can?"

House had turned the boy, who stared up at him, his face now completely devoid of fear or any other emotion. His large, sunken eyes flicked in Cuddy's direction as she approached, and although House's back was to her, she knew from the way he cocked his head that he could tell she was there.

"What do you think you're doing?"

House stared at her as if the question were absolutely absurd. "There was an itsy bitsy Spider-Man peeping in your window. I'm washing him down the waterspout before he could get any ideas."

She put a hand on her hip, mirroring his expression. "He's four, House."

"That shirt – " Still keeping a hand on the boy's shoulder, House leaned forward, practically nosing his way into her cleavage. Foolishly, the thought of moving didn't occur to her until too late. This fact, of course, wasn't lost on House, who leered suggestively while continuing. " – or should I say the lack thereof – could start the hormones raging in an infant. I'd stay out of the maternity ward if I were you. Geriatrics goes without saying."

Steeling herself, she tried to regain a modicum of authority and composure. "I was in the middle of an important phone call – "

"Did the clinic run out of cotton swabs again?"

"No," she immediately bit back. "The pharmacy never received its Vicodin order."

He had had a comeback at the ready before she had spoken, but her comment snapped his mouth shut faster than a sprung bear trap. Nearly forgotten, the boy made a small sound, something between a hiccup and a gasp, gazing from her to House and back again. House's disbelief transformed into a grin, and he shook the child gently, stage-whispering conspiratorially. "She thought she had me."

"I almost did."

"For about two seconds. Spidey'll back me up." He directed his attention to the boy again. "You can count to two, right?"

Shrinking from House's gaze but still inexplicably not trying to escape, the boy continued to watch both of them, looking as if any moment he would tear from House's grip and launch himself into Cuddy's arms – a turn of events she wasn't quite sure she was ready for.

"Let the boy go, House. You're scaring him."

"Scaring him? Little Spidey and I are old friends now."

Cuddy swore she could see skepticism streak the boy's tiny features, resulting in a strange facial expression when mixed with fear, freckles, and baby teeth. "I'd ask if you usually terrify your friends, but that would be assuming you have more than one."

Again, House whispered loudly to the boy, and again those two dark eyes nearly doubled in size. "She thinks she's so smart…."

Rolling her eyes, Cuddy crouched down to the boy's level and smiled warmly. "Who's supposed to be watching you?"

"You can ask him all the questions you want, but it won't do any good."

She ignored him, continuing gently. "What's your name?"

"He's the strong, silent type." House insisted, leaning down and sniffing loudly, making a face. "And smelly. Been here for at least two days, but without a bath for a lot more."

Sadly, House was right. The boy was dirty, his hair unwashed and sticking up in all directions, his hands and thin face spotted with a sticky, grimy residue – no doubt all that remained of more than a few free lollipops from the clinic. Cuddy tensed, biting her lower lip, and waited for House to jab at her, brazenly insulting any hospital that let a four-year-old wander its halls unquestioned, spiraling into a tirade against the said hospital's administrator that was only half in jest.

The caustic remarks never came, the hushed hum of activity that surrounded them continuing undisturbed. Staring at the boy's worn sneakers, she felt an instant cooling as the heat of House's gaze left her, looking up in time to see him lean down, his face almost touching the boy's. "I'm Dr. House. By day, I slave away in this hospital, but at night…." He paused, glancing up at Cuddy as if her presence were an intrusion, turning to try to edge her out of the conversation. "I can't tell you everything – there are spies everywhere here. All I can say right now is that my…." He lowered his voice and made a point of trying to speak without moving his lips, instead emphasizing the next word with wide eyes. "… powers… let me see through three things: lies, fake superhero disguises, and women's shirts. The last, of course, is the most useful on a daily basis."

Whether because of the startling revelation that the fearsome doctor not only _had_ super powers, but had not yet delineated whether they were used for good or evil, or simply from House's frighteningly overwhelming demeanor itself, the boy was obviously awed and somewhat shaken. Backing away slowly, he bumped into Cuddy's knees. He turned and regarded her carefully before sliding his large eyes back to House. "He's scary."

House screwed up his face and stuck out his tongue, following the child's lead by speaking to her as well. "And _he_ smells."

She couldn't help but laugh at this nearly equal exchange between two children: one of them over six feet tall and in need of a shave, to be sure, but both clinging to the same cartoon, frog-and-earthworm, and green-plastic-army-man level of maturity.

"We get that complaint a lot." Cuddy answered, reassuring the true four-year-old and ignoring the full-grown child. "Don't worry – he likes to think he's tough, but he wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Don't lie to the kid, Cuddy." House turned to the boy, almost menacingly. "I hate flies."

"Me too," the boy answered solemnly, as if this admission were some kind of pact that only the two of them would share.

"And you thought we weren't friends," he accused teasingly, grinning at her before becoming suddenly serious. "The jig's up, Spidey. Your cover's blown – we need a real name."

"I like Spider-Man better."

"And I think Dr. Dre has a gnarly ring to it. Unfortunately someone else got to both of those before we did." He bounced his cane on the hard linoleum, the boy's eyes following it. "If you won't tell us your name, we'll have to give you a new one, and I'm not making any promises you'll like it."

If this was meant as a threat, it failed – the boy patiently waited for House to continue.

"Now, the name-giving process involves a careful medical examination…."

Cuddy watched as House brought a hand down to the boy's arm, swiftly removing it when the child flinched. Flicking his eyes to hers, House nodded once, and she gently brought her fingers to the boy's bony elbow. Her touch didn't seem to startle him, and he didn't protest as she gently lifted his shirt.

"First," House continued, "you count the eyes and fingers, inspect the back and torso for freckles, birthmarks, and, in your case, radioactive spider bites…."

Cuddy sucked in a breath, House not needing more than that to follow her gaze, his voice barely skipping a beat as he grimly met her eyes. A ring of small, circular burns marred the otherwise smooth, still baby-soft skin of the boy's back, just below the shoulder blades, continuing under his arm and around to his chest, a few faded, but most still encircled by tender, irritated skin.

"The most important part is the belly button: innies are consonants, outies vowels, and if you don't have one, we skip the whole name thing and send you straight to the lab for testing."

The boy cocked his head, staring up at House. "You're weird."

"You're short and annoying," House shot back. "I don't make the rules."

"Usually you don't even follow them," Cuddy interjected pointedly, standing but keeping a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder.

House responded with a snap of the fingers. "I've got it."

"What?" the boy asked eagerly.

Pausing for dramatic flair but not waiting for a drum roll, House relayed the result with deadpan humor, though Cuddy could see the smirk fighting to curl the corners of his lips. "Susie."

The child's face crumbled, couldn't have fallen any further if he had been refused a puppy or just discovered that Santa Claus was little more than a figment of the imagination. "That's a girl name."

The sad look on the boy's face didn't seem to penetrate House's tough exterior, though Cuddy didn't know why she let that surprise her. Two days ago she would have been shocked if House had so much as hinted at concern and affection for another living being – herself included. He looked the boy up and down carefully, nodding. "Life ain't easy for a boy named Sue, but I think you can pull it off. Look at Cuddy. You can barely tell – "

"Don't," she warned, intent upon narrowing her eyes, but failing when she met his lopsided grin.

"Just trying to make the kid feel better," House replied, bending towards her and forcing the words out of the corner of his mouth.

Growing more daring, the boy stepped forward and tugged on House's pant-leg. "Can I change it back?"

House looked understandably taken aback at the child's sudden bravery, but recovered quickly. "But you make such a cute little Susie."

"Please?"

"Fine," House sighed, feigning annoyance. It might have fooled the boy – visibly relieved and elated at being able to shed his unfortunate new name so easily – but Cuddy could see right through the act. "Only because I'm tired of hearing you whine. So what d'we call you, Susie?"

"Ari."

"Seriously? No wonder you like Spider-Man better. Cover your ears," he ordered suddenly, and Ari obeyed somewhat hesitantly. "Kids are stupid."

"No, I'm not!" Ari protested, obviously not having followed orders as well as they had first thought, hands over his ears but fingers now spread. He and House were becoming more alike with each passing second.

Handing her his cane, House clapped a hand over each of the boy's ears, holding the curly head steady as the boy tried half-heartedly to shake it free, finally stilling. "Stupid _and_ annoying."

Cuddy watched the two of them, shaking her head slowly as she met House's amused stare. "How did you….?"

"Give me a break," he cut in, correctly anticipating the rest of her sentence. "You accuse me of being a child at least twice a week. Of _course _I can beat one at its own game."

But all this had been so much more than that. Every moment with him was a surprise. Something she should have been more than used to by now – but usually his surprises came in the form of broken rules and medical equipment, red-faced patients and family members. All of a sudden, there were thousands of facets and delicate layers to the sarcastic, thick-skinned Gregory House – shimmering and barely visible, fragile as the wings of a dragonfly – and she was able to peel them back and peer underneath, not by force or prying, but simply because he was letting her, staying still long enough for her to come close.

She smiled softly, wishing intensely, unexpectedly that they were pressed together as snugly as they had been that morning, that he had a free hand to reach out and brush against her, even if only for an instant. Ari fidgeted, drawing her attention to him once again, and she sobered quickly, speaking softly in case House's hands weren't, in fact, soundproof. "I need to call Child Services."

"Give me twenty minutes."

She watched him curiously. For once, there was no battle of wills, wits, or words, no inane arguments or pointless banter. She couldn't resist offering up a tired, cautionary "House…." But it was a feeble attempt at appearances more than anything, and what was more – he knew it.

"Trust me."

No single two words from him – spoken seriously – could have thrown her any more off balance, and she could feel her cheeks reddening, knew that was something she couldn't hide. She fingered his cane, distractedly twirling it as he would have.

This time, she was the one to deflect the matter at hand, not with sarcasm or a question, perhaps, but with a return to what the inside walls of Princeton-Plainsboro knew as normality. "If you're doing this to get out of clinic duty or avoid your patient…."

"Pleading the Fifth on clinic duty. Patient – " All teasing was suddenly gone from his voice. " – is a smoker – though he'll deny it. Don't let the kid out of your sight."

Her eyes fastened on his, neither of them blinking, and they spoke more in those few seconds than they had with all the words of the past ten minutes. The next thing Cuddy knew, House's hands had slipped from the child's ears to just under his waist, and the boy was thrust into her arms. Surprised, she would have dropped him if he hadn't looped his thin arms around her neck, hanging on tightly.

House exchanged the child for his cane, tossing it from one hand to the other. "You can call her Dr. Cuddly. It's her _special_ nickname. And if she gets cranky…." He leaned in close to the boy's ear, speaking so softly that as near as she was and as hard as she tried, Cuddy couldn't hear a word. House straightened with a smirk, waggling his eyebrows at her and leaving without another word, actually heading off to do his job without being forced or even told.

Ari sighed and leaned tiredly onto her shoulder. The warm weight of his body was strange, but not unwelcome. He swung his feet, his shoes lightly hitting her thighs. "He needs a time out."

"You have no idea."

She watched House continue down the hallway, swinging his cane as he waited for the elevator, much to the chagrin of those nearby. The doors slid shut on his smile – a soft, reassuring grin he had tossed her way just a moment before that she hadn't had time to return.

"Dr. Cuddly?" Sticky fingers were on her chin, pulling at her before she could turn. "Why do you even like him?"

"What makes you think I like him?" she asked quickly, irrationally. None of her staff was within earshot and the only reason a four-year-old's question should put her on the defensive was if she didn't know the answer.

Ari shrugged, grinning shyly, as if he were embarrassed to point out something so obvious. "He makes you smiley."

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**Never fear - we're getting close to the end. Or at least are well over the halfway point. Thanks for sticking with this so far, and please review if you get a chance!**


	10. Chapter 10: En Prise

**Have I mentioned lately how amazing you all are? Thanks so much to everyone still reading this, especially: anonymous, csi7, coco1116, Elliesmeow, PaualAbdulChica2007, Sapphire2007, hahasxybitch, gidget89, spacegal 19, Huddytheultimate, Calico Star, gabiroba, glicine, Eleanor J., nirky, sinister scribe, PopCrackleand Snap, kirby russell, Nikelodean, FriendsHolic, SnowySleigh, huddytilidie, and Captain Tish. I can't thank you all enough.**

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**Chapter 10: En Prise**

House had to stop six people before he found what he was looking for – or at least until someone would let him have it. The refusal of the couple in the elevator had been honest, and maybe that of the woman immediately afterwards, but the male nurse and two teenagers had been lying through their teeth, and it wasn't until he had offered one of the kids twenty dollars that he had finally succeeded in securing his prize.

Pausing for only a moment outside the patient's room, he stared through the slats between the half-closed blinds at the figure lying listlessly on the bed. He knew the man by his symptoms, hadn't the slightest idea what his name was or anything about him outside of his medical history – just like any of his other patients. And he would have remained that way – blissfully ignorant – if he hadn't seen the look on Cuddy's face as she had uncovered the scars on the little boy's back.

The anger would have still been there, certainly, but not this strange feeling of personal violation. The boy's pain had sparked Cuddy's, and her pain was his – had been, he realized, long before he had broken into her house, though he couldn't say exactly when.

Sliding open the glass door, he barged into the patient's room, pulling a cigarette from his newly-acquired pack and tossing the box onto the bed. "Three days in here without a smoke must be rough." He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it, an action he had practiced more than once through college and medical school, though rarely with straight tobacco. "Go on – light up."

The patient had hardly reacted when House entered – glaring at the pack of cigarettes and lazily rolling his eyes in House's direction, obviously none-too-thrilled at this intrusion. "I don't smoke."

House froze immediately, putting on a show of flustered embarrassment. "Sorry. Here, let me put this out." With a quick gesture, he pressed the lit end of the cigarette against the back of the patient's hand, holding it there for only an instant before the man pulled away, swearing viciously.

"What the hell're you doing?!"

"Putting out my cigarette," House answered, matter-of-factly. "See, in my day, we just threw them on the ground, but from what I've heard, this is all the rage now."

Beads of sweat dotted the man's pasty forehead and he glared at the welt already forming on his hand. "Get out of here."

"Yellow teeth, bad breath, nicotine stains on the fingers…."

"Where the hell's your supervisor? I told that girl of yours that I wanted to see your boss an hour ago. Your whole damn department's a joke."

"An hour ago, you and I hadn't even yet," House pointed out.

The patient narrowed his bloodshot eyes, staring much too viciously at him through the slits between the lids. "You're an asshole."

"You're _awfully_ judgmental for a guy who abuses his son."

"I don't have a son." The statement was matter-of-fact – there was no surprise, no outrage at the accusation of abuse.

"Right. And you're also not a smoker."

"I quit. Last year." His breathing was labored now. "I want a new doctor."

"Not much of a selection. Only two guys accept transfers from my department, and I don't think the phrase "child abuser" will get you past St. Peter's pearly gates. Lucky for you, the other guy's not as picky, and hey, you're all about dry heat and flames, right? Why bother – "

"Get the _hell_ out of here."

" – with a game of catch or checkers when all you need for some father/son bonding is a lighter and a little – "

Sitting up and swinging wildly, the patient let loose with a roaring chain of expletives – some even House had never heard before, though he did offer a few creative suggestions on his way out the door, leaving the patient red-faced and breathless behind him.

He made his way to his conference room. His team had been mid-conversation – by the guilty looks on their faces, not at all related to the patient – but quieted quickly as he entered and limped hurriedly to the whiteboard. Scribbling RAGE in large, heavy letters, he turned and faced them expectantly.

The younger doctors stared at him. "You know it isn't a symptom if you baited him, right?" Foreman finally offered.

House ignored the question. "When you broke into his place, did you find any Legos in the fridge or Cheerios in the couch cushions?"

Cameron frowned. "It was messy, but – "

"Frat boy messy or four-year-old messy?"

"Thirty-year-old bachelor messy," Foreman replied, arms crossed.

"Any chains in the closets?" House asked, stepping up to where Foreman leaned against the wall and staring him down. "A cot hidden in the corner of the basement or secret hideout in the attic?"

Foreman held his ground. "It was a studio apartment, not the Tower of London. No basement access, no attic, no closet space, and definitely no one else living there."

"What does this have to do with – ?" Cameron tried to intervene, leaning over the back of her chair to face him.

House wheeled as she started to speak, jabbing his cane at her. "Get Cuddy."

She stared at the tip of his cane, frowning. "We haven't even picked a test yet."

"And even if we had," Chase added, tipping his chair back, "why would you – ?"

"I like you better when you're silent and stupid," House spat, turning to Cameron. "Cuddy. Go."

Cameron's eyes swept from his, and he knew they must be locking with Foreman's behind him. Foreman, in turn, no doubt meeting Chase's stare. Chase shrugged, the motion seeming to sum up the thoughts of the three of them: _just go with it._

Cameron did, shooting House a curious look before leaving. His two remaining underlings shifted uncomfortably. House checked his watch: somehow it was already two minutes over the twenty Cuddy had allowed him. If he had attained the confession he had sought, she might not have minded, but he knew that even a mere 120 seconds off her schedule, she would be fuming, one hand on her phone and ready to dial.

Foreman was the first to break the silence. "Rage can be attributed to psychosis."

"Another symptom," House muttered, picking up his cane and swinging it like a golf club. "Not a diagnosis."

"But with the flu-like symptoms, we could be looking at syphilis. We should do an LP."

"Fine." He swung again. "Go with it."

"Fine?" Chase asked, incredulous.

"Jealous?" House responded dryly, crumpling a blank sheet of paper into a ball and dropping it on the floor, lining the crook of his cane up behind it – in his mind, this imaginary hole was a par four, and he should be well on the putting green by now. "Don't worry, you can do whatever you want, too. I've always wanted to try some experimental grafting. Gorilla's may have smaller testicles than humans relative to their size, but – "

"You want to use this guy as a lab rat and you're _bringing _Cuddy up here to stop you?"

Sidling up to the paper ball, he readied himself – from here it was only a few feet to Chase's left shoe, an easy shot, though the temptation to hit harder and aim higher was enticing. "What makes you think she'll stop me?"

Cameron returned, breezing in the doorway just as the wad of paper thudded against Chase's heel. She was alone.

"Where's Cuddy?"

Even as he righted his cane and pressed the button on his speed dial, he knew that when he held the phone up to his ear he'd get nothing but a few rings and the tinny recording on her voicemail.

"Her office was locked and the blinds were closed. It looks like she's gone for the…. House?"

But he was already out the door.

* * *

"Why does he have that stick?" 

"His leg hurts. It helps him walk."

Cuddy tenderly turned the child and lifted his arm, rubbing ointment onto the burns on his skin, covering the worst of them with colorful Band-Aids. As soon as House had left, she had snagged the first nurse that had passed, sending her first to the clinic for some medical supplies and then down to the cafeteria to get Ari something to eat.

At first, Cuddy had tried to question the boy as she tended to his wounds, but he had been unwilling to discuss them, his last name, or anything about his home life. Gentle as it was, the interrogation had been almost painful, and she had finally given up. Ari had been content to sit in silence for all of thirty seconds before it soon became clear that while he may have been uneasy answering any questions, he had no problem asking them.

"Why?"

"The muscle in his leg…." How did you explain an infarction and the concept of muscle death to someone who had yet to grasp all the letters in the alphabet? It wasn't as simple as having broken a bone or hurt it in an accident. "… is sick."

"Will it get better?"

_Probably not_ was the real answer, but not one she wanted to give. "It's been that way for a long time."

Ari seemed to consider this. Expecting his next question to press the issue further, Cuddy let her brain flutter into overdrive as she struggled to simplify medical-speak into everyday English, then breaking that down even further into something a child would understand. She shouldn't have bothered.

"Are you 'n' him married?"

She laughed softly, trying not to seem taken aback. It was a ridiculous question… wasn't it? "No."

"Why not? Are you gonna?"

This she evaded, though not very nimbly, checking to make sure she had treated all his wounds before lowering his shirt. "Better?"

Ari ignored her question just as she had his, his dark eyes meeting hers with a look that plainly said he wasn't going to fall for her tricks. "He likes you. He prolly already knows you're pretty."

It was a lopsided compliment, most certainly not at all intended, but she'd take it anyway, blushing. She ruffled his hair, the gesture coming to her automatically, just feeling right. "You're pretty handsome yourself."

Ari nodded vigorously, adorably, as if there were no need to point out something so evident. "Mommy use'ta say that."

The past tense wasn't lost on her, and Cuddy spent a few precious seconds struggling to find a way to capitalize on this new information without scaring the boy back into silence. She lost her chance.

A knock sounded. The nurse she had stopped in the hall entered with a tray, setting it down on the table in front of them, pointedly but silently picking up a plastic container of salad and a steaming cup of coffee and placing them on Cuddy's desk. She refused to meet her boss's eye, leaving quickly – obviously relieved – at Cuddy's nod.

A hamburger, the bun dotted with sesame seeds; a carton of milk; a plastic cup filled with quivering cubes of lime Jell-O, topped with a dollop of whipped cream. Ari eyed it all hungrily.

"Go ahead," Cuddy softly reassured him, wiping the burn ointment from her fingers with a napkin and reaching to open the milk carton.

The boy took a bite of the hamburger, placing it back on the plate and chewing thoughtfully while picking at the sesame seeds on the bun, finally slipping the ketchup-smothered patty from the bread and eating more eagerly. Cuddy watched him with amusement – after the first few bites, he carefully avoided the edges of the burger, instead hollowing it, not minding that this process covered his face and fingers with ketchup. Catching her eyes on him, he paused, holding the half-eaten hamburger out to her. "Wanna bite?"

Grinning, she shook her head. "But thank you."

Ari shrugged, piling the remains of the hamburger on the mostly uneaten bun, pausing to gulp his milk and bring the Jell-O cup to his mouth, licking off the whipped cream and picking at the jiggling, fluorescent cubes with his fingers. His eyelids began to droop after a few moments of this, head nodding, and with his belly full, it wasn't long before he leaned his head against the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes.

Cuddy gingerly plucked the cup of Jell-O from his sticky fingers and wiped the ketchup from his face with a napkin, rising to retrieve her jacket from the coat rack and draping it over his sleeping form. Returning to her desk, her eyes flicked to the clock in the corner of her computer screen. It had been twenty-two minutes since House had promised to return. She would allow him five more, but then she was calling Child Services – something, she knew, she should have done twenty minutes ago, despite House's pleading; it would have to be done to matter what information he brought her.

Sliding the salad and coffee aside, she picked up a single elastic band without a thought and rapidly began twisting it with both hands. She hated the acrid scent of rubber that would stick to her fingers afterward, but by the time the motions of her hands registered, the damage had always already been done.

God, her head was pounding again, and though she knew she was lucky the flu hadn't hit her any harder than this, still she half-wished she had given in and stayed home today.

Ari sighed in his sleep, kicking off the makeshift covers, his thumb finding its way into his mouth. She rose and picked up her coat, tenderly smoothing it over the sleeping boy, and though she knew there were a dozen medical reasons why she should have taken his thumb from his mouth, she didn't have the heart to do it. Her fingers brushed his neck and shoulder as she tucked the jacket around him, and he snuggled into her touch.

Her back was to the door when she heard it open. "You should have been here five minutes ago," she murmured, trying for stern but failing as Ari's lashes fluttered and she brushed the auburn curls back from his face.

The sound of the door quietly shutting and the click of the lock were her only answer. The blinds clattered as they were roughly drawn closed, and she knew, even before a strange hand clamped bruisingly around her upper arm, that she wouldn't find House behind her.

* * *

**Please review (and don't kill me) - I love seeing what you guys think. Thanks again for reading!**


	11. Chapter 11: Time Pressure

**As always, you guys rock. Thanks so much to everyone still reading this, especially: maddoggirl, Eleanor J., Elliesmeow, Huddytheultimate, csi7, kittyge, SnowySleigh, JD11, Shikabane-Mai, Abbeyannmd, coco1116, Calico Star, huddytilidie, Sinister Scribe, addicted2coffee, gabiroba, Forsaken Goddess, Captain Tish, thyla, and SavvyKitten.**

Apologizing in advance...

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Chapter 11: Time Pressure

The talon-like grip on her bicep was so sharp, so tight, that Cuddy could feel the pulse in her arm pound against the thick, unyielding fingers. She turned slowly, surreptitiously slipping her jacket higher up the boy's face, keeping her body in front of him to avoid instant recognition. Her attacker was smaller than she would have expected from the force holding, husky but short: with the added height of her heels, her eyes were level with his, the effect somehow calming. She tried to shake the hand off her arm, but that only made its iron grip tighter. 

She was careful to keep her voice coldly professional. "Can I help you?"

He was sweating profusely, face pale but cheeks an unnatural crimson, eyes bloodshot. She recognized him after only a moment: it was House's patient – the smoker, the connection to the boy. She had been caught off-guard one too many times by livid patients and family members fuming about the head of her Diagnostics Department, and now always made a point of glimpsing his newest patient of the week for just such a situation. Well, maybe not _just_.

His voice rasped hoarsely, gravel grating against rough asphalt. "They're trying to kill me."

"Who?"

"Your goddamn doctors. All of them."

Truth be told, the complaint wasn't wholly foreign – especially as far as House was concerned, though she generally had some warning beforehand: a ludicrous request for a procedure, one of his staff, concerned about the patient, of course, but also their own salaries. She sighed, maintaining her composure; she hadn't been appointed Dean of Medicine at one of the best hospitals in the country for nothing, after all.

"While Dr. House's methods may be unconventional, I can assure you – "

"Unconventional, my ass!"

She risked a glance behind her, only looking over her shoulder far enough to see the boy still sleeping out of the corner of her eye. "Mr. Grant, I can assure you," she started, decisively, pulling his name out of thin air and firmly prying his hand from her arm, "that Dr. House is one of the best diagnosticians in the country." The rush of blood back into the limb left it throbbing but she refused to rub away the pain.

Eli Grant balled his newly-loosened fingers into a fist, his chest heaving, eyes rabid. Something rang out shrilly, familiar, but startling in this suffocating tension.

Her phone.

Neither of them moved, but still he breathed, "Don't get that."

Her heart hammered in her chest, the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears nearly drowning out the ability to think, but, oddly enough, she wasn't frightened. She launched into full-fledged administrative mode without a thought. "I'm sure if you take a moment – "

"No one in this hospital listens to a fucking thing I say!" His voice was rising dangerously, his hands clawing at her again, and if it weren't for the boy, she would have already been halfway toward the door or at least safely put her desk between them.

With the backs of her calves already digging into the sofa, stepping back was not an option, so she took a risk, guiding him backwards with a firm hand, in order to lengthen the rapidly closing distance between them. He caught her arm, yanking her off balance, and she knew by the way his hand slid off her, his raspy breathing catching for a moment before kick-starting near to hyperventilation, that Ari had become visible behind her.

"What is he doing here?"

Decorum was fleeing, anger oozing in its place. "Mr. Grant, you need to – "

"Answer me!"

He shook her roughly, but she was glad, at least, that he kept his hands off the boy. Her cell phone was ringing, but she barely heard it, brushing him off her, her temper flaring.

"Your _son_ was – "

"I _don't_ have a son!"

Cuddy didn't see him reach out – only felt the sudden, stinging pressure of his hands on her, saw her office tilt and soar sideways. Twisting, she caught herself, awkwardly, given the lowness of the coffee table, but not before slamming painfully against its edge and sending the vase upon it flying. It hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash.

Shouting had apparently been nothing more than ambient noise to Ari, but the shattering vase woke him with a gasp. Cuddy righted herself in time to see him jump up, scrambling against the back of the couch as if trying to escape over it and glancing around nervously. There wasn't a muscle in her body that wasn't throbbing, but she pushed through the pain without a thought: at her feet, over the glass shards, and scooping Ari up and over the back of the sofa.

The breaking glass seemed to have an oddly calming effect on House's patient. He crouched, as if to pick up the pieces, hands shaking wildly. His eyes shot around the room more erratically than a pinball, glancing over Cuddy then doubling back and locking on the boy, slamming from almost apologetic to frighteningly fiery.

Ari appeared relatively nonplussed after the shock of the sudden noise, not shying away from the angry man as he had from House only half an hour ago. He fought to get out of Cuddy's grip. She had to set him on his feet to keep him from falling, but kept both hands solidly on his shoulders, refusing to let him run forward.

"If Daddy was here, you'd be in big trouble," he scolded, folding his arms then peering up at Cuddy. "He breaks stuff a lot."

"Let him go," Grant growled.

Ari struggled forward, and her mind was reeling – this wasn't at all what she had expected. House had as good as stated that this man was Ari's abuser: of course, he had been wrong before, but always about details – petty, he'd call them – almost never the main event. It was a tendency she found obnoxiously fascinating about him; just something else that made House… House.

"You're not mad, are you, Dr. Cuddly?" Ari asked, glancing from where her hand held him to her face, obviously confused. "I can help clean it up."

"Stay here," she managed, holding him back as he lunged forward.

"Let him go, God dammit!"

"Whatsa matter, Uncle Eli?" Ari asked, voice wavering. He finally stopped struggling to leave her side, his hand searching out and finding hers, his small grip powerfully tight. "Where's Daddy?"

The tone of this question was what mattered – guarded, tremulous, petrified – because nothing could have been farther from that of a little boy waiting eagerly by the front door for the sound of his father's car tires in the driveway. This was a child more afraid of the answer to his query than of a stranger's candy or monsters under the bed.

And maybe House hadn't been that far off after all – nailing the general culprit but confusing the person and name. A thousand questions still hung in the air, unanswered.

"They're gonna kill him, too, aren't they?" Grant held a jagged shard of glass in his hand, the ends of it had already pierced his fingers, blood dribbling down his palm, but he didn't seem to notice. "Answer me!"

"Uncle Eli?" The boy was near tears.

"He's sick, Ari. He doesn't know what he's saying," she reassured the trembling child, tipping his chin up to ensure he saw the truth in her eyes. "No one's going to hurt – "

"Answer me, bitch!" Grant interrupted, lurching at her, tilting, clawing at his head with one hand. "They keep saying it, they keep sayingittheykeepsayingit…." The words came too quickly, rushing into a single buzz that rose into a shriek. One hand still tearing at his head, the other lashed out – at her, at Ari, at his own hallucinations.

All she saw was the boy, the glint of broken glass streaking through the air.

Forcing Ari behind her, Cuddy raised an arm to ward off the blow just a split-second too slowly, and she saw the blood blossom crimson on her own pale skin.

* * *

House quickly made his way to the elevator, his mind running through the patient's symptoms – the train of thought was automatic, deflecting feral emotion with the rationality of medicine. He didn't realize his team was behind him until Foreman spoke. "We can use the spinal fluid from the LP to – " 

"Sure," House interrupted, impatiently jabbing the button for the elevator. "But when you get to the patient's room and he's not there, just go straight to the Path Lab instead of running sniveling to me. Use the blood there for the VDRL, then run an EIA."

"Why wouldn't he be in his room?" Cameron insisted. "You were just there."

"A VDRL and an EIA? So you _do_ think it's syphilis?"

This was Chase. He thought. House was only half-listening – enough to hear and mechanically answer, not enough to fight, retort wittily, or even pretend to care. "No."

And they continued without any further input at all. It never mattered which of them was speaking, only insofar that it helped him personalize his responses, providing whatever insult would best fit his target. With no intention of responding, there was no point in paying attention.

"I thought we didn't test for diseases we don't think our patients have?"

"Except when we're looking for false positives."

"Sure, but we already…."

He let the conversation ramble on behind him, had been waiting for the most protracted three seconds of his life, but the elevator was too long in coming. Staying still was killing him. Movement was necessary. He pushed through his team and started down the stairs, pressing the speed dial for Cuddy's cell phone and knowing he wouldn't get a response.

"Where are you going?"

There was a pause here, indicating a response from him was necessary – that didn't mean it wouldn't be sneering. "I thought it would be pretty obvious."

"But you never – "

He stopped in the middle of the staircase, slamming his cane into the railing. "Stop questioning me and go do your jobs! Now!"

With that, he motioned the younger doctors to pass him, but none of them moved, too busy glancing at one another. House snarled with disgust as he continued downward. It was slow going, but at least it was motion. His team crept almost silently behind him, but as long as they had stopped talking, they could be easily ignored.

"Hey. House…. House?" Wilson's voice – someone else following him was just what he needed.

"I wouldn't do that…." Cameron warned, but Wilson must not have heeded her advice, his hand suddenly on House's shoulder.

"Running away from your patient?"

"Little busy," was all House could respond, so someone else took the initiative.

"Running _to_ Cuddy."

"Is there a Jersey-wide pandemic I don't know about?" Wilson asked, clearly as bewildered as House's team.

House ignored him. The shades to Cuddy's office did, in fact, darken the door and windows – something he had known to expect but had been hoping against the entire way down the stairs. As the Dean of Medicine, Cuddy was always distinctly visible: watching with eagle eyes everything that happened in her hospital, at the same time accepting that all eyes would be on her. House had only seen her close the blinds on one occasion before; and then, he had been on the inside.

Wilson followed his gaze, sighing. "What did you do to Cuddy this time?"

Finally, finally, finally, House ground to a halt outside Cuddy's door, swearing when the handle, of course, refused to budge. Feeling for his wallet, he opened it viciously, and why was it taking so damn long to find that key?

"If you're going to follow me around like a bunch of lemmings," he spat behind him, "at least make yourselves useful. Get security."

Someone left, a coat swishing. Only Wilson was brave enough to speak. "House. What the hell's going on?"

The key was cold and solid in his fingertips, and he pushed it into the lock, hand trembling though he tried to hide it. The door handle pulled from his grip before he had a chance to turn it, and he was suddenly face to face with a pale, obviously shaken Ari. The boy almost immediately launched himself through the half-foot gap in the door, wrapping his small, thin arms painfully around House's knees.

The room was unsettlingly silent. Cuddy was nowhere to be seen.

With one hand on the boy's head, House grit his teeth and forced the door open with a quick jab of his cane.

* * *

**There is good news: The next chapter's the one that's been running through my head the entire time I've been trying to write these past few, so it hopefully won't take forever (and with reviews, my muse will kick into overdrive). Plus, we're only a few chapters from the end - it won't be long now. :)**

**Thanks again for reading, and please take a second to let me know what you thought.**


	12. Chapter 12: Discovered Check

**You all continue to amaze me. Thanks so much to everyone still reading this, especially: Shikabane-Mai, AR, Abbeyannmd, Some Crazy Lady, coco1116, Elliesmeow, mo, CaptainTish, abc2, SavvyKitten, hahasxyitch, Eleanor J., nirky, HigherThanSoulCanHope, huddytilidie, csi7, ButterNJam, gabiroba, Calico Star, Bera-Moon, seriousmelo, MrsHouse, JD11, Kish32, and Lady Sidhe. You guys are incredible! **

* * *

**Chapter 12: Discovered Check**

The first thing he noticed was the blood – not much, but still there, and that was enough: smeared on the arm of the sofa, a haphazard path of scarlet drops meandering lazily across the carpet. His eyes followed it across the floor, over broken pieces of glass, finally, thankfully, landing on Cuddy. She knelt beside his unconscious patient, disheveled, but moving, breathing. He could only see her in profile – a view that could easily hide many wounds – but for now, that would have to be enough.

Cuddy twisted her head, met his gaze. Relief was there, rushing out before she could hold it back, and he knew somehow that if Wilson or Cameron or anyone else but him had been in the doorway when it had opened, the look in her eyes – solace, security, appreciation – wouldn't have quite been the same.

Still, House hung back. They both knew they needed a moment to breathe – if he came within an arm's length of her, the pull would be magnetic: he'd have no choice but to gather her into his arms, and, at the moment, couldn't fathom a way to pass such a tender gesture off as their usual, bordering on sexual harassment, give-and-take.

It was an odd feeling, this electric attraction to another human being that was so much more than that – encompassed the overpowering urge to apologize for… anything really, but especially things over which he had no control. She could scream at him now – argue over anything: the patient, the boy, why the hell he still (thankfully) had the key to her office – and he still would've been relieved to hear the sound of her voice.

The others hurried through the door, jostling both him and Ari, who was still attached to his legs. Quick reflexes enabled House to reach out and snatch Cameron. "Take the kid," he mumbled, peeling the child gently from his leg and handing him off.

Ari protested with an unintelligible whine, and House took his eyes from Cuddy for the first time since he had spotted her, bending down to Ari's level. "Don't worry." His voice was gruff, but he meant it gently and the boy seemed to understand. "_She_ really _wouldn't_ hurt a fly."

The boy seemed to doubt this, but quietly accepted his fate at Cameron's side, his dark eyes locked on Cuddy. "He hurt her."

"Who?" Cameron asked, and something of a conversation continued, but House heard it only as a droning, not words.

"Are you all right?" It was a question he should have asked, but Wilson beat him to it, crouching beside Cuddy, a hand on her shoulder.

She didn't answer, instead nodding at the patient. "He seized. Lasted about thirty seconds."

The man's hands were cut, streaked red: hopefully the only source of all that blood, even if the wounds didn't look deep enough. Chase was stooped beside the patient, listening for breath and feeling for a pulse. "Breathing's shallow, pulse's a little weak,"

Ever the gentleman, Wilson helped Cuddy to her feet. She winced, left arm holding the right awkwardly, tightly against her body. Foreman returned with two security officers; they mumbled to each other, one leaving again while speaking into a squawking walkie-talkie: something about nurses and a gurney.

"Hey." Wilson eyed Cuddy with a frown, hesitantly placing a hand on her elbow and nodding to Chase. "Go grab a first aid kit."

"Don't," Cuddy warned, stilling them both with the glare she usually reserved for House alone. Wilson smartly retracted his hand and Cuddy turned her stare on House. She was the first to speak, the forced strength in her voice causing it to waver – a stutter that anyone else there could interpret as barely concealed anger. "I gave you twenty minutes."

House risked a few slow steps forward, leaving only a few feet and the shattered glass between them. Her poise was remarkable – her hands might not have been on her hips and she was obviously trying to mask pain, but still she exuded a conviction that was clearly not to be trifled with.

Only half a second was needed to gauge the response she wanted: that much had been clear enough the moment any words had left her mouth. "Must've forgotten to sync our watches," he mused, glancing at his own watch for effect, frowning. "Mine says I've still got two left."

She narrowed her eyes – a textbook move for her, but somehow he could see her heart wasn't in it. "If you hadn't spent so much time _avoiding_ your patient you might have – "

"What can I say but you bring out the best in people, Cuddy. Symptoms, I mean."

"Well, hallucinations and seizures certainly make your patient more interesting," she responded dryly, tiredly. "You must be thrilled."

"Hardly." His tone was grimmer than he had intended – given the situation, nothing could have been more removed from the truth. And he could see it now, not the source but the blood, a drop squeezing from between the fingers of the hand she held over her elbow and falling to the floor. "You're a spoilsport. Case's closed. And you're dripping."

"Case closed? Just like that?" She was dangerously pale, and he was _thisclose_ to damning his gruff exterior and helping her into a chair. Glancing at her elbow, she shifted her left arm, trying to catch the blood. "I'm fine."

Ordinarily, he would've had some retort for that, but any words now were only prolonging the time until he succeeded in examining her arm. "Respiratory symptoms indicate serositis. Kidney dysfunction's continued despite treating the PHP. And now neurolog– "

She didn't wait for him to finish, didn't need to, they had fallen into such a seamless rhythm of late. "Only three criteria. You need at least one more."

"Like I don't know that…. Foreman!" he shouted, louder than was necessary. "Path Lab. Now."

Foreman sighed, standing, ready for an argument. "How many times are we going to – " He trailed off, glancing from House to Cuddy, seemed to form a question but obviously deciding against it, leaving the room.

"That should bring me up to four. But Chase," House continued, speaking to Cuddy but pausing until he had the younger doctor's attention, "is going to check him over for a rash, just for good measure. And I mean _all_ over." The thought of this seemed to catch Chase somewhere between dubious and horrified. "Don't give me that look. He's gentle as a kitten now. Cuddy must've flashed him the funbags – he'll be comatose for at least another – "

This time, Cuddy hadn't spoken to interrupt him, but finding her small frame suddenly pressed against him and in his arms served just the same purpose. He hadn't seen her step over the broken glass toward him – in actuality, a distance of only a few feet, but a seeming chasm over the past months and years.

This would be the stuff of hospital gossip for days, a headline, for once, that was not of his making. He could almost hear the self-proclaimed gossip columnists now: _and without any reason or seduction, the Dean of Medicine fairly launched herself into Dr. Gregory House's arms (Yes, _the_ Dr. House, and no, not to smack him, though he would've deserved it, what with the way he treats her)…._

Miraculously, the world continued without them.

The gurney arrived, its wheels squeaking, the sound seeming to wrest Chase from stunned and back to somewhat useful, his mouth snapping shut as he busied himself with the patient. Voices floated from somewhere outside House's peripheral vision.

"Is Uncle Eli dead?"

These were the first words Ari had spoken that had been crystal clear, and Cameron jumped in to answer. "No, but he's very sick…."

This should have relieved the little boy somewhat, but still his voice was quick and urgent. "He hit her, he hit her with the glass and there was blood and I pushed him but it wasn't hard and he fell over and he started shaking and Dr. Cuddly said – "

"What?" Cameron's voice asked. "Who?"

"Dr. Cuddly. She said to open the door and find somebody to help." Ari paused, gulping in a breath. "I didn't push him hard, only I didn't want him to hurt her again."

"It's not your fault," Cameron tried to soothe.

But Ari quickly switched gears, seeming to forget the emotion of the last few seconds as quickly as a goldfish that is once again surprised by its own reflection when it makes another turn around its bowl.

"I told her she liked him – "

"Oh!" There it was, the shock of Cameron's recognition, but the boy didn't allow her much time to revel in it.

" – and he likes her too. Where's Uncle Eli going?"

Cameron fumbled; if all kids could be perfect distracters like that, maybe they really weren't half bad.

And for half a moment, even surrounded by a flurry of activity and the sterile, judging walls of the hospital, House had Cuddy to himself. She hid her face in his chest for just a moment, her breath hot against him, shuddering, and he brought a hand up to the back of her head, knowing that though this was against everything the two of them had – literally – fought for, right now it was just what they both needed. Any rules had always been hers and he'd just played by them (and even then, only when it suited his own purposes); as strong as she was there would doubtless be very few moments when she'd profess to needing him at all, and he wasn't about to miss the first of them.

She pulled away slowly at first, lingering, then more quickly when she seemed to realize where they were. But the damage was done. House took advantage of the disorientation their position brought her, catching her wrist before she could hurry away from him. She gasped, quickly biting her lip to stifle it, and he flicked his eyes to hers long enough to silently apologize, to tell her that this was for her own good.

A deep, jagged gash ran halfway down the outside of her forearm, the blood still flowing, dripping down to her elbow, finally spilling over her cupped hand and escaping through her fingers.

"You _do_ bleed," he gasped, feigning surprise, teasing to cover the rush of concern. "Some of the nurses were starting to – "

"I wonder how _that _rumor got started." She pulled her arm away, unable to hide how this hurt her even if she cringed only just perceptibly.

"Don't think you're going to be able to keep this carpet without a fight. I've heard the Dean gets really cranky about potential biohazards." He thought he saw her smile, didn't like the way the blood still bubbled from her wound and let his voice soften a shade. "That looks pretty bad."

"It's nothing," she insisted.

He gave her a look before lumbering over to the coat rack, taking the silk scarf he found hanging there and pressing it firmly to her arm. If she complained about ruining the scrap of fabric, he had half a dozen quips at the ready, but she accepted the makeshift bandage silently, gratefully. Her blood stained his fingers and he wiped them carelessly on his pants.

The room was suddenly much too quiet – everyone was watching him strangely, almost expectantly. The gurney had been noisily wheeled from the room, but Chase hadn't followed it, and House turned to the younger doctor, annoyed. "Why are you still here?"

Chase looked ready to make a comment but seemed to decide against it, shrugging. If he thought House hadn't noticed the way he raised his eyebrows at Cameron as he left the room, he was very much mistaken, but any chastisement would have to wait until later.

"Babysitting duty," House declared crisply, facing Cameron. "Check him over in the clinic and call Social Services."

Not seeming at all happy with this arrangement, Ari folded his arms and scowled at Cameron. Cuddy stepped in. "It's okay. Dr. Cameron works for Dr. House. She'll take good care of you."

Still Ari seemed skeptical, looking Cameron up and down. "Here," House offered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, handing it to the boy. "She tries to pull anything funny, you hold down this button." He demonstrated, and Cuddy's cell phone chirped to life. He retrieved it from her desk and slipped it into his own pocket. "Got it, Spidey?"

Ari cocked his head. "If she's number two, who's number one? Your mom?"

"Voicemail," House answered through gritted teeth; Cameron was suppressing a grin, but not very well. "It comes that way. Now, shoo."

"You'll come back?"

"Yeah, sure," he replied, the words garbled with Cuddy's, "Of course."

When Cameron held out her hand, Ari took it without further argument, letting her lead him out of the office but turning back to watch them before disappearing into the clinic.

His hand was on Cuddy's elbow – House noticed only when she shifted, pressing more solidly against him. The pad of his thumb circled over her skin, the response so automatic it was as if just the feel of her had triggered it. She relaxed against him with a sigh, her head tilting back to rest against his shoulder.

"Exactly how long have you had Cuddy's cell on your speed dial?"

It was Wilson, almost forgotten in the corner. He had been watching silently the entire time and now stood with a smirk, arms folded.

Not bothered enough by Wilson's presence to completely move out of House's grasp, Cuddy still straightened, pulling slightly away from him. House frowned. "Don't even start."

"You don't even have _me_ on speed dial. You said you didn't know how to program it."

"Is somebody feeling a little left out? I bet there are plenty of patients in the cancer ward _dying_ to meet you." He turned to Cuddy. "Jimmy here's got magic sperm – the cure to cancer. May not be FDA approved, but – "

"Right now, I'd say base insinuations aren't exactly your best option," Wilson interjected.

"Oh, like you'll say anything in front of…." House turned to Cuddy. She had grown suddenly, impossibly, paler, all color drained from her face, as if her last show of authority and the final assurances to the boy had sapped the strength from her. Pushing gently, House guided her back to the couch, lowering her onto it. "Cuddy?"

"I'm fine."

"No. You're not."

"Dr. Cuddy?" One of the security guards poked his head in the door and entered, holding a clipboard. "I need you to – "

"Unless those can be signed with blood, they can wait," House snapped. "Get out."

He didn't wait to see if the security guard obeyed. Cuddy had propped her head up with her good arm, her eyes closed. The swish of the door and the sound of quick footsteps announced Wilson's exit, and House understood his friend well enough to know he would return shortly with medical supplies. "Lise?"

"House." Her eyes snapped open; she seemed taken aback at finding his so close. "I'm – "

"A _horrible_ liar."

"Fine," she countered weakly, but this time it was a concession. Her eyes squeezed shut again, her voice lowering hoarsely. "It hurts like hell."

* * *

**I was _really_ tempted to end this a few lines earlier, but I thought if I gave you three cliffhangers in a row – even if this wouldn't have been very much of one – it would only be a matter of time before you'd all gang up and kill me...**

**Please let me know what you thought – it keeps writer's block from setting in. And thanks again!**


	13. Chapter 13: Cross Check

**You guys are _beyond_ amazing. Honestly. Thanks so much to all my readers, especially: Shikabane-Mai, SnowySleigh, csi7, TammySMS, Elliesmeow, Abbeyannmd, abc2, Kate, Forsaken Goddess, coco1116, Calico Star, AR, hahasxybitch, Purejoy.Chik, Leia Arletta, Eleanor J., ButterNJam, sinister scribe, gabiroba, Snivellusly Ozalan, kittyge, Captain Tish, huddytilidie, and SmilinStar. **

**This might seem a bit long (sorry), but there's a lot of dialogue...**

* * *

**Chapter 13: Cross-Check**

She briefly remembered falling off her bike as a child, seven years old and bawling, both knees skinned; slicing her finger with a knife while helping her mother in the kitchen and being demoted to stirring duty, not even allowed near the stove; foolishly falling asleep on the beach during her one and only spring break venture, the top of her bikini untied so the nearly second-degree sunburn on her back, at least, was not interrupted by any embarrassing lines.

Still, all those combined could not equal the white-hot, screaming fire radiating from the slice on her arm.

"Lisa?"

The view behind closed eyelids was a haze of red and blue and the purple of pain that left her mind reeling, reducing all the events of the past ten minutes, hours, years to single sensations and stirring them all together: frustration, rage, the rough tenderness of his fingers, concern, ecstasy, his gently grating voice, a twinge of fear, the taste of his lips….

It shouldn't have surprised her, the way every thought spiraled back to House.

"Hey." The softness his voice had spun only an instant ago was gone, had grown into something more urgent. "Lise." He was shaking her now, gently.

Cuddy lazily opened her eyes to find him taking the scarf from her arm, uncovering a sticky scarlet mess that she didn't recognize as her own skin. "If you showed this much concern for your patients," she mumbled recoiling with a hiss as his fingers brushed too close to the wound.

"I'd say it's less concern and more being sick of you bleeding all over me." His voice was falsely brusque, and she had to admit that he did have a point – teasing, though he may have been – her blood was everywhere.

Wrapping the scarf around her arm, this time so tightly that she saw stars even in the fog behind her closed eyelids, he grumbled something incoherent and angry that she didn't ask him to repeat. His fingertips left her arm and she felt them dance up her side, sliding suddenly under her shirt and taking the flimsy fabric with them.

They slipped against her, rough and sticky with her own congealing blood. It took her a moment to remember to protest. "What do you think you're doing? House?"

"You were favoring your right side."

What on earth he could have been talking about was miles beyond her, until his fingers, so delicate, were suddenly rusty spikes digging excruciatingly into her side. His voice hissed dangerously in her ear. "What the hell else did he do to you?"

She caught his wrist, met his eyes, the fury in them almost slicing through her. "Really, House, it's – "

"Dr. Cuddy? Oh…."

It was a female voice that Cuddy recognized as belonging to one of the nurses, but she couldn't picture the woman's face. With her shirt lifted and House bending close to her naked skin, their position was more than compromising.

"Out!" The door shut with a bang. "What the hell kind of idiots do you hire that they can't last five minutes without you?" House muttered nastily, but the force behind the tone wasn't directed at her. He paused, his voice gentling a shade as he prodded, "Cuddy."

She let the earlier ordeal play out in split-second clips: the door, the blinds, the patient's grip, shouting, the room flying…. "The table edge," she admitted.

"Leapt out and attacked you?" He was back to teasing now, but the venom was still there.

Cuddy sighed. "Not exactly."

House mumbled something of which she only caught the tail-end: "… bastard." Then his hand caught hers, squeezing lightly before letting go and fishing for something in his pocket. "Did you hit your head?"

"Today? No."

Nodding, he stood to retrieve a half-empty bottle of water from her desk. He pressed a pill to her lips, and she took it, gratefully and without question, along with the water he handed her. For once, he returned the rattling Vicodin bottle to his pocket without swallowing any himself. He grumbled something about Wilson, plodding back and forth in front of her, slamming his cane heavily on the ground.

Leaning back on the sofa, she lost sight of him for a moment – though he was right in front of her and she couldn't remember closing her eyes – barely felt his fingers press to the pulse at her throat. Then a hand was under her arm, lifting her, and she stood obediently.

"C'mon." House seemed to wait until he was sure she could stand on her own before leading her forward, a hand ever-ready on her back should she stumble. "If Wilson takes any longer, they'll have to replace more than your carpet."

Wilson appeared in the hallway just as they left her office, but still House did not turn back. He took the tray of supplies in one hand – gauze, a suture kit, antiseptic, clean cloths, and a syringe of anesthesia – the other still on the small of her back. "Bring me an IV and a bag of saline."

"Where are you going?" Wilson asked, watching them breeze past the clinic.

"My office."

"Clinic's closer."

"My office has a better atmosphere," House shot back, wheeling around so swiftly that the supplies on the tray rattled, the gauze rolling to the floor. "Any more questions, officer, or are we free to go?"

Wilson held up his hands in defeat, his gaze jumping from House's glare to where his arm was slung protectively, instinctively around Cuddy's waist. He stooped to retrieve the gauze before turning and heading back to the clinic.

Cuddy watched him go, felt House push her gently forward. "I don't need an IV."

"Sure," he agreed briskly. "Rapid pulse, ghostlike pigmentation, and skin that's cool to the touch. All perfectly normal."

"House. Be serious."

And he was, almost frighteningly so, as he stopped and met her eyes. "Don't think I won't sedate you if you refuse to cooperate."

She couldn't help the amusement that spread across her face even as he continued to glare at her ferociously: she didn't doubt him for a second.

* * *

House had pulled a comfortable chair up to his desk, and Cuddy rested her head against its back, watching him warily. She had let him start without protest – he was a brilliant doctor, after all – but he was working so slowly and carefully that she was beginning to have second thoughts. "When's the last time you did this?" 

"Relax," he answered, without looking up, wrapping the thread around the needle driver once again. "It's like riding a bike."

She raised an eyebrow. "That expression loses its credence coming from someone who _couldn't_ actually get back up on the bike."

"You're insulting me again," he stated matter-of-factly, hands stilling as he flicked his eyes up to hers, grinning. "Nice." The door opened and Wilson entered, holding a bag of saline and a needle, IV pole in tow. "About damn time."

"_You're_ doing sutures?" Wilson asked, staring at them in disbelief.

"If I loop this around here," House deliberated, leaning back as if to admire his handiwork, "I think I can make something pornographic. What d'you think?"

Wilson peered over his shoulder. "Nice…. And no. But if you veer this way…. "

"Don't give him any ideas," Cuddy interrupted tiredly. The Vicodin was beginning to kick in, dulling her aching body and her senses. The numbing fog was lovely after such stabbing agony, and she was beginning to think that in a few moments, she would understand House's dependence on the drug completely. She eyed the stitches he had already done; he was watching her with a smirk. "And don't even think about it."

House shrugged and went back to his work, nodding at Wilson. "Set her up."

The expression on Wilson's face was priceless: performing a medical procedure on his boss was clearly not something he found appealing. He took a step back. "Me?"

"Unless you have an IV fairy in your pocket. C'mon, sticking Cuddy with something long and hard has been one of your fantasies since – "

"It's not true," Wilson interrupted, reddening, hurriedly prepping Cuddy's left arm for the IV.

"That's what he pays his therapist to convince him."

Wilson pretended he hadn't heard, tightening a constricting band around her upper arm. "I ran into Foreman on the way up here. Test was positive for syphilis. He's starting the patient on penicillin – "

House snorted in disgust. "After you're finished with that, go tell him he's fired."

" – as a precaution, but Chase found your rash and is – "

"Ow…" Cuddy murmured – Wilson had stuck her with the needle, missing the vein and pulling out. House looked up at her soft admittance of pain, shooting Wilson a glare.

" – sorry – already hooking him up to corticosteroids and an immunosuppressant."

"And Foreman's ass is saved by the man from the land down under."

"And it looks like you've actually got a lupus diagnosis," Wilson replied. Cuddy winced as House was about to secure another stitch, causing Wilson to flinch in turn and mutter another, "sorry," flustered. "Missed the vein. Again."

"For crying out loud. Give me that." House placed his tools down on the desk and grabbed the needle from Wilson, sticking Cuddy's vein with one quick jab and flicking the knob on the IV. "You should head down to the ER for some practice. I'm sure there are some first years there who can show you a thing or two."

Obviously embarrassed and apologetic, Wilson ignored him, turning instead to Cuddy. "How're you doing?"

"Better," she answered, softly. Maybe not physically – the answer to that would have been something more along the lines of _like death warmed over_, or one of a thousand other clichés that still wouldn't have done the pain justice.

Yet with House so aggressively – sweetly, in his own way – taking such thorough and protective care of her, physical feeling didn't seem to matter. She caught House's eyes on her, his look relaying that he didn't for one second believe that she was any better at all, and she had to look away before his blatant scrutiny forced verbal admittance.

"Hey. Wilson. I wasn't kidding."

Wilson watched them, seemed to catch on quickly. "Fine. Call me if he becomes too much of an ass," he offered on his way out the door.

Relaxing, Cuddy examined House as the silent seconds passed. His brow was furrowed, his jaw set, and it was oddly thrilling to be the focal point of such painstaking concentration, especially when it was laced with a concern he had never wasted on any of his patients. That element wasn't necessary, of course – from a medical perspective, he could perform his job just as well otherwise. But its hushed, shadowy presence transformed the scientifically methodical act of sewing stitches into something more akin to a kiss – a series of them: up her arm, careful and lingering, deliciously slow.

She sighed, the sound causing him to glance up, only turning back to his work once he had gauged everything was still all right. "Subtle," she finally ventured, quietly.

"Even an oncologist should know how to put in an IV."

"I meant getting rid of him."

"That's a little narcissistic of you, isn't it?" He mirrored her grin even without having looked up to see it. "Assuming that I want you all to myself."

There was nothing to do to that but smile: old enough to know better than to fall so hopelessly for simple charm, head of a hospital, first in a field that relied on rationality almost more than anything else – yet still blushing as furiously as a schoolgirl.

It was hopeless. And House seemed to notice it, too, though he tried to mask his grin with a determined frown when he caught her looking.

It seemed only an instant before he was reaching for the gauze and wrapping it around her arm. "Seventeen," he stated, though she hadn't voiced the question. He secured the gauze on her arm and stood to check the IV. "He'll be fine."

"Who?"

"The kid. You had that creepy mothering look in your eye."

His hand was suddenly on her shoulder, squeezing gently, and she rested her check against his fingers without a thought. "Thank you." He was gone much too quickly, crossed his office to the door of the adjoining conference room. Watching him curiously, she frowned. "House?"

He paused at the door. She thought she saw him smile. "Don't argue," he stated before even giving her anything to argue against. "Stay here."

Then, he was gone. She hadn't realized that his team was next door: they must have been under observation the entire time. House crossed to Cameron first, no doubt grilling her as to why she wasn't still with the boy. Cameron busied herself on the conference room's computer after a moment, and House exchanged a few quick words with Chase and Foreman before leaving the two of them with raised eyebrows and folded arms. Cuddy could feel their furtive glances as she lounged in the chair at House's desk, decided feigned ignorance was her best option.

House's staff was the least of her worries – she could practically feel the entire hospital pulsating with the thrill of salacious gossip. She closed her eyes.

The door opened with a bang. It seemed as if she had done nothing more than blink, but the room had grown dark in House's absence. His form was a shadow; too bulky of one, she realized, and only when he came slowly closer could she see he held the sleeping boy in one arm. "Social worker was a joke, but the kid and I had a little chat and I was able to dig up some dirt."

The look on her face must have been one of bewilderment, because he paused to explain. "Every kid has a specific sugar-to-cooperation ratio. Give Spidey here a few Oreos and he'll tell you anything you want." He sat on the edge of his desk, facing her. Ari rubbed his face sleepily into the crook of House's neck, leaving a trail of cookie crumbs. "Uncle's never touched him – hard as that may be to believe. Mom died a year-and-a-half ago. Kid's dad's the sadist."

"House…" she whispered warningly, just loud enough for him to hear.

"Are you kidding? I could drop the kid and he wouldn't wake up. Dad must've heard his brother was here and came begging for some fast cash. Ran when he didn't get it – some mess with the police – and left the kid outside the hospital. Son of a – "

"House."

He paused, eyes smoldering, and he continued quietly. "Long story short: Uncle Lupus is the only relative. Background's clean, aside from today's episode, but the kid'll need someone else to take care of him until the uncle's cleared." With that, he stood, as if there were nothing more to explain. "Now, let's go. We've got to get you home."

She stood, pulling out her IV and cringing, still trying to make sense of everything he had told her. "You can't just – "

"Why should Social Services go through all the trouble of placing the kid in a home, when we have a licensed foster parent right here?" He reached around awkwardly and pulled some papers out of his back pocket, shoving them at her. "You can find _anything_ on the Internet."

"That doesn't even _look_ like my signature," she finally managed after a moment, frowning.

"This whole document's forged and _that's_ the problem you have with it?"

"How did you know my mother's maiden name?" Her eyes were flying over the form he had handed her. He was almost laughing, which only made her frown more vicious. "And my social security number…? House?"

"I know your bra size, too, but oddly enough that never came up." House took the papers from her, placing them on his desk and then catching her arm, examining the gauze to ensure she hadn't bled through her stitches. "The security report was on your desk. You signed that, too. And you're taking a week off. At least."

"I can't, House. I – "

"You already sent a memo to all department heads. You can't go back on it now." He let go of her arm, reaching around her for his leather jacket. "I'll meet you out by your car. Do you want to run the gauntlet first or should I?"

He was offering her an out, a way to try to displace the rumors for at least a little while longer – as futile as they both knew that would be. When she finally dared to glance up at him, she found his eyes already piercing her.

"I'm tired, Greg. Let's just go."

"Yes, mistress," he answered, his sardonic tone contrasting exquisitely with the way he tenderly draped his jacket over her shoulders.

* * *

**Never fear, all. The end is in sight: only one chapter to go...**

**Please let me know what you thought, and thanks again for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14: And Mate

**Well, here it is, all - hopefully at least halfway worth the wait. I have a few ideas bouncing around for other stories. Nothing really solid (I had to finish with this world before I could start trying to create another), but you'll probably see me around. And if anyone has any suggestions, by all means, let's hear 'em.**

**Thank you so much to all of you who've read this far, and especially anyone who's taken the time to review. A final shout-out to the last chapter reviewers: Shikabane-Mai, Eleanor J., AR, Elliesmeow, Nikelodean, PaulaAbdulChica2007, Kish32, coco1116, sinister scribe, huddytilidie, SnowySleigh, HigherThanSoulCanHope, SmilinStar, kittyge, abc2, Captain Tish, J Lesley, and Snivellusly Ozalan - you guys are awesome. Thanks!**

* * *

**Chapter 14: And Mate**

Cuddy released a shaky breath once they reached the cool night air. That sound, a slight stutter in her otherwise assured step, and the way her eyes closed just a split second longer than a blink required were the only evidence that she had been unnerved by the boring eyes and wagging tongues that had followed them as they'd walked together down the hall.

They had had to stop at her office to collect her purse and her car keys, and with the main exit so close, going out any other would have only added fuel to the four-alarm fire that had quickly spread from one staff member to the next throughout every department of the hospital. True, they would've made quite a pair even if no one had known them: him with a cane in one hand and a child in the other; his leather jacket draped over her chic blouse and skirt while her bandaged arm was held carefully against her chest; both their clothes stained with blood.

The ride to her house was quiet. House drove, having snagged her keys as soon as he'd buckled Ari into the backseat. Cuddy had glared at him for a moment, but acquiesced without a word, instead mumbling concern about not having a child safety seat.

For the first time outside of his supervised teenage years, House drove just under the speed limit.

His hands were full, but still he unlocked and opened her door, ushering her inside before entering himself. He didn't ask what he should do with the boy, automatically taking him to Cuddy's bedroom and setting him on the bed, removing the child's sneakers and slipping him under the covers.

He rifled through the bureau, finding and snagging a t-shirt. Cuddy was still standing by the door when he returned, and he took his jacket from her shoulders and handed her the shirt, leading her to the couch. Turning on the TV softly so that something would dull the silence, he flipped through the channels, stopping on the first thing that wasn't broadcasting blood or violence or angst: a curling match.

Cuddy didn't protest or question his choice, her eyes following the path of a stone as it was swept across the screen. Leaving her, he trundled into the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator and finding a bowl of grapes. When he returned, she had changed her shirt and taken off her shoes, but otherwise hadn't moved.

"You know you're gonna have to get something edible for the kid, right?"

"Not all kids hate anything healthy, House," she answered tiredly, glancing at the contents of the bowl he handed her, plucking a few grapes from the vine and setting the rest on the coffee table.

"Shows how much you know," he scoffed, hunkering down on the couch beside her. "Good luck getting a kid to follow _your_ directions without anything artificially colored or flavored as incentive. I know you like to think you're sweet, Cuddy, but – "

"What am I going to do with him for a week?" she interrupted quietly. "I don't know anything about kids."

She might not have said it, but still the unspoken words hung in the air: _you said so yourself once_. The exact wording was hazy, but the look on her face as water streamed down it was a sight he'd never shake. He frowned, but wouldn't let her see it.

"You'll feed him, water him, give him plenty of sunlight…."

"He's not a plant, House."

"Animal, vegetable – same rules apply." He shrugged. "And you've got a half-grown one. House-trained and everything. He'll tell you when he's hungry. He'll even tell you when what you're feeding him tastes like crap. You'll manage."

She seemed to consider this for all of half a second before doubt returned like a shadow. "He should be with a real foster family – someone who actually knows what they're doing."

"Seriously – how badly can you screw up a kid in a week? Even _you_ don't have that kind of talent."

She still hadn't eaten the grapes, rolling the green globes around on her palm, the blue light of the television flickering off their pale skins. He reached forward and snatched one, tossing it into the air and catching it in his mouth, the sweetly tart juice bursting as he crushed it between his teeth. Holding out her hand, Cuddy offered him the rest of the grapes without a word.

"Cuddy. I've _trained_ you for this moment. And the size of this kid actually gives you a fighting chance if he starts anything. Relax – you'll be fine." Catching another grape in his mouth, he aimed the last one at hers. An arched eyebrow was her response, but he didn't give in completely, pressing the fruit to her lips. "How's your arm?"

Chewing slowly, thoughtfully, she finally swallowed. "How's _your_ leg?"

Fair enough.

He felt the pressure of her head on his shoulder, her curls brushing against the nape of his neck, and he had to defy the compulsion to run his fingers through them. "You know, between your run-in with the doorframe – "

"_That _was _your_ fault."

" – and today's little incident, we're going to have to keep you on a pretty tight leash. Any more bruises and the Board's gonna start to wonder what you're doing in your spare time."

"After today, I'm sure they'll have a pretty good idea."

"I said _what_ not _who_," he answered, smirking.

She sighed, shaking her head and nuzzling further into his shoulder. This time, he did bring his hand up to her hair, tousling it, and she hummed softly at the tender gesture.

The sound continued to reverberate through his mind even after it had disappeared from the air. Something so simple, barely a syllable, that somehow managed to voice contentment, gratitude, and half a dozen other emotions that he understood even if words for them had yet to be assigned.

"Lise?" Her eyes had fluttered closed, but if he didn't continue now, he never would. "I'm… glad you're okay."

He knew when she didn't answer that she had drifted off, understanding all too well that the only sleep a new wound would allow her would come in fits and starts snagged from complete mental and physical exhaustion. Muting the television, he eyed the afghan that lay folded at the other end of the couch and set to devising a way he could use his cane to reach it without waking her.

"Did they make a mess?"

The tiny voice so close to his ear was unsettling until he turned and found the boy standing beside the sofa, staring curiously at the television. "It's a game. Curling. They sweep the ice to guide the stone."

Ari tilted his head as one of the teams stood amongst the rocks on the ice, deliberating its next move with the aid of brooms and broad gestures. "That's dumb."

"Don't let any Canadians hear you say that," House scolded lightly, grinning. "Or Scots, for that matter. They invented it."

"Were they bored?"

"Probably."

Turning from the game, Ari glanced around him to Cuddy's sleeping form, creeping closer and whispering loudly. "Is she sleeping?"

"Yeah. You should be, too."

"I was 'til I waked up." Without waiting for an invitation, the boy climbed up on the sofa beside him, staring up at him accusingly. "_You're_ not."

"When you're grown up you can stay up as late as you want."

Ari's scowl was expected – bedtimes an injustice to children everywhere. His glare fell on House's legs and softened to curiosity. "What one's the hurt one?"

House rubbed his palm against his thigh without a thought, his fingers brushing against Cuddy's loosened fist, the touch of her hand so light, he hadn't known it was there. "This one."

"Does it hurt all the time? What if I touch it?"

The kid's hand was poised a few inches above his leg, prepared to lower, but House caught the tiny wrist before it had a chance to descend. "Don't."

"_She's_ touching it," Ari pointed out, aiming an outstretched finger to where Cuddy's hand rested on his thigh. "Is that why her name's Dr. Cuddly?"

House smiled softly. In only a few moments of sleep, Cuddy had already pressed herself closer against him, as if afraid he would slip through her fingers if the weight of her body wasn't holding him down. "Something like that. She likes to think she's tough, but it's all an act."

"I got hit with a baseball once. Right here." Ari held up an elbow and pointed at the top, continuing defensively before House had a moment to question the probability of a baseball hitting that exact spot. "But I didn't cry."

"Tough guy, huh?" He flicked off the TV, casting the room into darkness.

"Don't!" Ari yelped, jumping up, knocking the once-baseball-battered elbow against House's chin with a loud smack.

House turned the television back on, swiftly muting it again and glancing at Cuddy, still asleep at his side. He rubbed his chin, wiggling his jaw to make sure everything was still hinged as it should be. Ari stood on the couch beside him, eyes wide in the flickering light and glued on the television screen.

"I-I…" Ari stuttered, "I wanna see who wins."

"You don't even know how to play."

The boy frowned, caught in his lie, and turned to Cuddy, whispering loudly once again. "She doesn't like to sleep in the all-dark." He must have registered the mixture of amusement and skepticism that flashed across House's face, because he continued quickly, struggling to save his case. "If you ask her, she'll say no, but she told me."

"Did you tell her that if she closed her eyes, she wouldn't be able to see anything anyway?"

Ari nodded vigorously, his red curls trembling. "She didn't believe me. There're monsters in the dark."

Not laughing was a struggle, but somehow House managed it, his face stonily serious as he nodded in agreement. "She never believes a word I say either." He gestured at the television. "If I keep this on, you have to go to sleep. Sit down and shut your eyes."

The boy half obeyed, squeezing his eyelids closed but not sitting back down. "You have yours shut, too?"

"Yes."

As he watched, Ari's eyes snapped open and he leaned in so they were nearly nose-to-nose. "No you don't."

"Neither do you," House stated, mirroring the child's accusatory tone. For a few moments, they glared at each other, neither blinking, until House finally sighed, rolling his eyes before closing them. A battle of wills with an overtired four-year-old was one contest it wasn't worth the effort to try to win. "Okay, they're closed."

"Me too." A thump and the soft bouncing of the couch cushions announced the boy's return to the sofa beside him, and House felt the tickle of curls and the warmth of a silky cheek against his bare arm. "Still?"

"Yes," he answered, smiling now that no one could see him. "Go to sleep."

The boy followed orders with miraculous speed. His muscles twitched and breathing deepening within minutes as if someone had flicked a switch. This wasn't a position House would ever have imagined finding himself in: Cuddy asleep on one shoulder and a small child on the other. And even though he wasn't at all tired and the dull throb of his leg was steadily increasing to a stabbing ache, he found himself more relaxed than he had been in quite awhile.

He didn't realize his fingers were intertwined with Cuddy's until he felt her squeeze them, gently, and he opened his eyes to find hers studying him. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to know I'm afraid of the dark."

"Wait'll the rumor mill gets a hold of that one."

"It'll already be too busy digesting the fact that you actually have a soft side." She nodded at Ari. "You're good with him."

"You must really hate me if you'd jeopardize my reputation as an egomaniacal narcissistic pain in the ass. D'you know how long I've worked to – "

"Yes, actually." Her expression read plainly: he would have to be dense to even begin to ask that question, let alone finish it. He grinned.

"You love it," he stated. "This is fun, remember? You do something to make me miserable; I do something to make you miserable... They're _your_ rules."

She refused to meet his eyes, staring instead at her fingers as they drummed against his own. "What if I'm not miserable?"

"Ah ha!" He said it a little too loudly, and Cuddy lifted her head to take a quick look at the still-sleeping boy. Lowering his voice, he kept up his triumphant tone. "I knew you'd give in sooner or later. Check and mate. I win."

"How do _you_ win if you were supposed to _make _me miserable?" Cuddy countered, her point valid, though he'd never admit it. "And since when is this chess?"

"Candy Land a little more up your alley?" He had a fleeting image of the colorful candy-coated board and deck of cards flying through the air. Even as a child such a simple game had frustrated him, but he had no doubt that a four-year-old Cuddy would have played it with practiced dignity and patience, solemnly lining up her marker with each colored square. "I wouldn't say you've exactly held up your end of the bargain either, Queen Frostine. Not my fault if you refuse to acknowledge my grueling efforts to make your life a living hell. You admitted defeat first. You forfeit – I win."

"Faulty logic." She stifled a yawn. "But whatever makes you happy, House."

"Whatever makes me miserable, you mean," he teased. "But if you're gonna be that way about it, we'll call it a stalemate."

Easing both Cuddy and the boy off him, House stood, helping her up and lifting Ari. "C'mon. To bed. You won't be able to move tomorrow if you sleep on this couch. And I don't want to get stuck waiting on you _and_ chasing after Spidey. He'll already need a good dose of Benadryl as it is just to shut him up for awhile."

Cuddy followed him silently into her bedroom, disappearing into the bathroom and shutting the door. Placing Ari back under the covers, House set to removing his shoes and socks, taking a bottle of pills from the pocket of his jeans before tossing them into a pile on the floor. Retrieving his cane and limping to the kitchen, he filled a glass with water and brought it back to the bedroom. Cuddy had still not left the bathroom, so he knocked softly on the door.

"Lise? You okay?" He cracked the door open when she didn't answer, relieved to find her standing by the sink. The reflection of her eyes in the mirror flicked to his, and he offered a quick explanation for his intrusion. "Thought you fell in."

"I'm fine."

He sighed, rolling his eyes and crossing the room to her. The harsh light of the bathroom illuminated her wounds, and he struggled to ignore them, failing miserably. Setting the glass of water on the edge of the sink, he opened the familiar orange bottle, tossing a pill into his mouth and swallowing, holding the bottle up by her ear and rattling it suggestively. "Cheers."

"House, those are – "

"Yours." He watched her raise an eyebrow as she recognized her own name on the label, backwards in the mirror's reflection. "What – you can't share? I gave you one of mine earlier."

She answered him by reaching for the Vicodin, taking a pill and raising the glass of water to her lips. The muscles of her throat fluttered as she swallowed thirstily, and as insanely unfounded as his sudden jealousy of that water glass was, he acted on the impulse, snatching it from her hand and gently turning her so he could press his lips to hers.

She responded instantly, drinking him in as eagerly as she had the cool water only a moment before. The taste of her mouth was divinely tainted by the peppery flavors of toothpaste and Vicodin, was the only thing that took away his pain more completely than a shot of morphine straight to the spine, and he wondered for a split second if he had even half that effect on her.

Too soon, she was pushing him away, managing the gesture while clinging to him at the same time. "God, House…. You know we can't…."

Drumming a fist on the counter, the action releasing only a fraction of the frustration that had been dammed up inside him since that afternoon, he looked straight into her eyes. "Lise. Just shut up."

His voice was gruff when he meant the words gently, but she must have understood, because her fist was twisting the fabric of his t-shirt and she was pulling him close already, her lips hard and bruising, her teeth gnashing against his. He let her dominate him as he knew she wanted, because she needed this, too – an outlet for tension and aggravation and anger – and he was more than willing to comply.

When she paused to take a breath, he subtly stole control, slowly stretching and softening the kiss so that it said everything he had tried and failed to tell her, until she was resting her head tiredly on his shoulder and his lips were pressed against her forehead, having followed a lazy path from her mouth, across her cheekbone, and over her temple. She nipped lightly at the nape of his neck, and he chuckled softly, shifting so that his arm could snake around her waist. "Someone's a little sleepy. C'mon."

She brushed her hand against the light switch as they left the bathroom, but he quickly flicked the switch so the light shone brightly. "Leave the light on."

"Why?"

He let her go, carefully angling the bathroom door so a stream of light spilled across the floor and climbed up the side of the bed, spreading across the covers. Shuffling to the closet, he peered inside, shifting her clothes with his cane so he could see every angle before closing the door with a soft click.

"What are you doing?"

Passing Cuddy, he smiled innocently at her inquisitive gaze, easing himself carefully to the floor and glancing under the bed, swiping his cane underneath for good measure. He felt her hand on his shoulder, heard the soft moan of pain she tried to hide as she knelt down next to him, her forehead furrowed questioningly.

"Greg?"

"Just checking for monsters," he finally answered, offering her a lopsided grin before stealing a quick kiss. "You're afraid of the dark, remember?"

* * *

**And so it ends.**

**As always, reviews are savored - you guys have been wonderful. Thanks!**


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